I Am No Knight
by redroseofblue
Summary: This is a SanSan story taking place during episode 7 of season 7, and beyond, with some obvious changes. It is mostly based on the show, but there will be some book references as well. Instead of travelling to King's Landing to show the wight to Cersei, Sandor Clegane heads for Winterfell to offer his protection to the lady Sansa. This will wrap up ASOIAF season 8.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first attempt at fan fiction, but I'm a hopeless SanSan fan, so I wrote this mostly to satiate myself. I thought I'd share in case any of y'all might enjoy it too. This takes place during Season 7, episode 7 and beyond, with a few obvious changes.**

Chapter 1

Sandor Clegane hoisted himself purposefully onto the Night's Watch mount and turned his attention to the commander. "Tell the King in the North I'm going to protect his sister. Or don't tell him, I don't fucking care. I'm going either way." He looked Tormund straight in the eyes then. "And when those dead cunts get here, send a few of them to hell for me."

Tormund Giantsbane looked grim, but he gave a short nod in reply. "Hopefully you won't be seeing me and the rest of these fuckers in the crowd when they come for you. And tell the big woman I'm coming back for her soon." Tormund grinned in the way he always did when he talked about Brienne. The Hound snorted a half chuckle and dug his heels into the garron which took off toward the south gate of Eastwatch by the Sea. _The gate to the land of the living,_ he thought. _For now anyway_.

The men in black eyed him with longing as he galloped past. They wore the cold on them like cloaks now, every man always a bit frozen, miserable, and something else too. A sense of hopelessness settled behind every grim mouth and sullen stare of the men of the night's watch. They were the last barrier between the army of the Dead and the Seven Kingdoms, but no songs would be sung for their sacrifice, and they'd suffer and die alone.

Clegane clenched his jaw in determination and let the castle shrink away behind him as he galloped into the frozen North toward Winterfell. _Life isn't a fucking song, they know it as well as I do._ He thought of Sansa then, as she was when she was just a girl who had first come to King's Landing. Obsessed with songs and lovers, knights and ladies, she'd hardly been able to look at his burned face. Then the lesson came with Joffrey's brutality after he'd killed her father. She'd learned then, he thought, when her life turned upside down. Still, she'd been weak and broken the last he'd seen her, hiding behind the calm, submissive, and deadpan face that she showed to the world, the only defense she had against the brutality she faced daily. Sandor cringed in remembrance. The poor girl was just a child. And now her brother had left her with Littlefinger, that conniving cunt of a man. He spurred the horse on at that thought, determined to arrive in time to protect Sansa from whatever Baelish was trying to use her for. The little bird. He couldn't help but smile. He'd protect her again if it was the last thing he did.

The journey was long and cold, with little shelter or fresh supplies to be had, but the Hound had faced worse. He was able to trade for a fresh mount at Castle Black, and restock his supplies. The men looked at him with a mixture of fear and distrust when he'd stated his purpose, sent by Jon Snow to the lady Sansa, but he sensed they didn't care much. Any distraction from the death marching on the wall was a welcome one. They all knew their time was short, and he wondered how many would desert in the days to come. How many already had?

He didn't bother telling them what he knew, he didn't want to remove the last of their hope. The dragon queen had lost one of her three dragons to the Night King. As much as those firebreathing fucks terrified him, the thought of the Night King mounting a dragon to lead his dead army sent a chill down his spine. And why wouldn't he do just that? He'd been prepared, Sandor saw, with the huge, frozen spears. The giant bears with their unnatural blue eyes and rotting flesh tearing into Thoros flashed into his memory, and he grimaced. The Night King obviously had no difficulty raising dead animals just as he raised the thousands of men and women corpses in his army. An undead dragon was too awful to dwell on, and Sandor pushed the thought from his mind as he grunted a thanks to the Lord Commander and left Castle Black behind just as he'd left Eastwatch.

He could travel faster alone, sleeping in the saddle to make up for the few hours of frozen sleep he risked at night. Still, he had to keep a fair pace for the sake of his mount, so he couldn't reach Winterfell as quickly as he'd like. As he rode he kept his mind busy with thoughts of what he'd seen beyond the wall, and what would come of the meeting in King's Landing where they planned to show Cersei the wight.

Sandor scowled. _That cunt won't change her mind. It was a fucking suicide mission from the start. Seeing that dead fucker, even if they make it there, won't change her mind. As long as she and her brother lover are safe, the rest of Westeros can all die for all she cares._ He seethed in remembrance of the friends he'd lost at the massacre of the sept he'd helped to build, and of the father and daughter who'd died in each other's arms at their farm.

He thought of Arya and her vicious will to live, kept going only by hatred; so like himself. He thought of Sansa and a queer ache started in his chest. It was always like that, so he'd grown accustomed to the feeling, though it still made him uncomfortable. He knew it was just a desire to keep her safe. She was such a helpless little lady, used and abused by all who laid hands on her. He'd learned a few bits of information about Ramsay and Sansa's torture at his hands from Jon during their trek north of the wall. He'd gone cold at Jon's words, and not from the biting wind. The poor girl, _the little bird,_ had been brutalized by that fucker, and Clegane thought that even Jon hadn't shared or perhaps hadn't even known the extent of the torture she'd endured.

The thought had given him purpose, for he'd made the decision then to go straight to Winterfell if he got out of that mission alive. He'd ask Jon's permission, more as a courtesy than anything, because he was going to go with or without his approval. Then Jon had nearly gotten himself killed by trying to be a fucking hero. He'd been unconscious when they'd sailed so the permission was never asked or received. It made no difference to him. As the acting ruler of the North in Jon's absence, Sansa would be able to decide for herself if she wanted his protection.

He cringed at the thought of her refusing it. Would she want his protection? She hadn't joined him when he fled King's Landing after the battle of the Blackwater. But she'd been gentle...he had felt for a moment that she'd cared about him, about what happened to him. No one had ever cared. _Listen to yourself you fucking idiot, who's the little bird now? The songs are shit, the girl cared about her family and being safe_. He liked to think that he'd at least tried to keep her safe then, as much as he could. She would've known, she must've known that he'd never hurt her.

By the time the towers of Winterfell rose in the distance, Sandor Clegane was exhausted. His bad leg ached so violently he almost wished it was gone. The horse he'd exchanged at the last farm he'd passed had been given to him reluctantly by the man, yet it had served him well and he patted its mane in approval. "Nearly there, girl, and you'll have a good meal and warm stables." His voice sounded strange in his ears, raspy and cold from lack of use, and he was anxious to be warm again.

When he approached the gate, the guard looked at him warily and demanded his purpose. The Hound knew he'd be recognized so didn't bother hiding his identity. "I've come from a mission north of the wall with Jon Snow, the king in the North. He's sailing now to King's Landing with the dragon queen and I've come to offer protection to his sister." Sandor intoned the last sentence to imply that he came at Jon's command and hoped he wouldn't be driven to an actual lie. The guard narrowed his eyes and conversed inaudibly with another guardsman before turning back to the Hound and giving a curt nod. "You'll be shown to a room and the servants will bring food. The lady Sansa will be told of your arrival."

"I'd rather see her now."

The guards exchanged glances. "The lady Sansa is in the great hall with her brother and has called for an audience with her sister. She will be occupied for the duration of the meeting."

Brother? Sister? Did they mean Arya? What brother, Jon was Sansa's last living brother, wasn't he? His confusion was plain on his face, but the guards were impatient. "Never you mind, if you'd rather see it for yourself, we'll escort you to the hall, but don't be surprised if you're made to wait. Hallyn," the guard called to another man inside the walls of the castle, "take two"- he glanced sideways at the Hound-"er, four men and escort this man to the great hall. Do not interrupt the Lady's doings, he is to wait until Lady Sansa is ready to see him."

Sandor handed his mount off to the stablehand who approached him, and followed two men to the hall, with the other two following close behind. He addressed the man called Hallyn, "what did he mean that the lady's brother and sister are here? They can't be alive." The last sentence was almost a question.

Hallyn looked up at him, taking in his scars and huge stature. "You're the Hound?"

"Aye I'm the fucking Hound, what's that got to do with anything?"

Hallyn gave him a dissatisfied glance, and donned the honorable look the Northmen were so well known for. "I'll not be giving information, Ser, unless my lady determines you're a friend and not one of our enemies."

Clegane growled and clenched his fists, "Fine, I'll use my eyes then. And I'm no fucking knight."

He spat. Hallyn looked disgusted, but said no more.

Sandor was led into the great hall by a side entrance so as not to disturb the meeting. Men gathered on all sides of the room, and to his right was a long table where a young man in a chair with wheels sat and solemnly faced the crowd. He had the look of the Starks, though Sandor could only see his profile, and in another instant the realization hit him. _Fuck if that isn't the little crippled boy. He survived._ Clegane was surprised that this thought pleased him. Anyone who beat the Lannisters in any way pleased him.

Movement to his right drew his eye behind the boy, and he almost gasped audibly. Sansa. Not the little bird as she'd been, but Sansa, the lady of Winterfell. She was more beautiful than he remembered, with a maturity to her features. She'd grown taller, with a full woman's body, and the gorgeous red hair streaming behind her over the fur cloak she wore. But the biggest change was her expression. No longer a terrified girl, this Sansa had piercing blue eyes that took no shit, and her pretty mouth was set in a determined line. He was the most flabbergasted he'd been since he'd seen Danaerys flying in to their rescue on fucking dragons. _She looks like a dragon. That fire hair. She looks ready to kill._

Had Sansa looked to her left, she'd have seen him, but she did not. She was a woman with a purpose. She sat down and faced ahead where the hall was almost immediately opened, and footsteps signaled the entry of someone, a someone who must be the focus of this meeting.

Sandor looked for the person, and for the second time in a matter of seconds, he was completely speechless. Arya, strode in determinedly, flanked by soldiers. She was not like the Arya he remembered, aside from her still not dressing like a lady. She'd grown taller, fuller, older in every way. When he looked at her face he knew she'd become the killer she'd always wanted to be. He was torn by a surge of pride and fear at what she had become. And then the trial began.

When Sansa began to speak, the Hound was struck with the maturity in her voice. The lady of Winterfell spoke clearly, piercing, and without the timid stammered courtesies that he remembered. She spoke with a cold determination that both chilled and impressed him.

While she spoke, his attention shifted to a point slightly ahead and to the right of him where he saw Littlefinger standing in the shadows near the front of the hall. He looked pleased, far too pleased, and Sandor could see that this meeting was a result of his conniving. He listened more carefully then to what Sansa was saying. She was laying accusations at Arya's feet.

 _Shit_. He glanced back at Littlefinger who had the look of a man who had everything going according to plan. _He's playing them, playing their obvious differences to his advantages. That cunt_. Sandor determined then that he would make a move to distract and interrupt this trial; anything that could delay it long enough for him to convince the Stark girls of Littlefinger's deceit. He began to step forward and drew in a breath to speak loudly, when he heard Sansa say, "Lord Baelish?"

For a third time, he was dumbstruck, and he paused and clamped his mouth shut again. The scene before him played out like a pleasant dream, the kind where you wake up bummed that it was only a dream. Was this actually happening? Bran chimed in and Clegane looked back at him. _The boy has some magic. And why not? I've seen dragons and dead men, why not a broken boy who can see into the past_? This made him suddenly uncomfortable, and he turned his attention back to the trial before him.

Petyr Baelish was coming undone, begging and near crying like a small child. For all the conniving and scheming that this man had done to claw his way to power in King's Landing and the fear he'd invoked in lesser men, here he knelt, begging for life from two girls and a crippled boy. The sweet irony filled Sandor with a sense of justice done and he was full of pride for the Stark girls.

And suddenly, in one swift motion, Arya ended Littlefinger's disgusting life with the very blade that had started the war of the five kings. The lifeblood flowed from the neck of Petyr Baelish, pooling beneath him like a maroon cloak, and the Stark children had their justice.

Sandor Clegane had an inane urge to applaud them, but he instead snorted loudly and said, "I couldn't have made a better ending for that cunt if I'd had a week to plan."

He hadn't intended to draw attention and said it more to himself than anyone, but the Hound was not a softspoken man, and half the room turned to him. The silence was heavy, as the condemned man still lay bleeding, and the entire room felt the awkwardness of the timing for the Hound's arrival. It couldn't be helped now, however, and Hallyn glared at Sandor before stepping forward and announcing their guest to the lady of Winterfell.

It was Arya, though, who moved first, walking directly toward the Hound, never breaking eye contact. She stopped abruptly just an arm's length from him, looking up at the much larger man with a questioning look in her dark brows. He returned the silence, meeting her gaze with the same intense look, so that gasps were heard throughout the room by those who feared violence from one or both.

Then he grinned a half grin at the same moment that Arya threw herself into his embrace. He returned the hug, as awkwardly as he was wont to do during any displays of emotion, and they remained this way for several long seconds. When they'd both pulled away, Sandor grunted quietly, "it's good to see you, girl." Arya's reply was a huge grin.

And then there was Sansa. She'd appeared so silently behind Arya that Sandor hadn't noticed when she'd approached. Her face was impossible to read, but she did a small curtsey and said, "Sandor Clegane, we did not expect to see you here. You must be exhausted from your journey. Won't you please take your rest before joining us for supper? We may discuss your purpose then. Please excuse me." And before he could even express his surprise, Sansa turned on her heel and left the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Please bear with me as I figure out how to use this program. I love seeing reviews and favorites, I'll post chapter 2 now to hook you with more content, but the rest of the chapters will come as I write them, hopefully every couple of days. Thanks!**

Chapter 2

Sansa splashed the warm water on her face, and pressed her palms to her cheeks for a moment after, feeling the cold air on her wet skin, and inhaling deeply. _He's gone, for good now. I'll never need fear his tricks or treachery again_.

Still, the pain she felt at the loss of him was real. She'd had no love for Littlefinger, yet the man had been the vehicle which had carried Sansa through many of her recent years, and the source of many confusing emotions. She'd experienced feelings of trust and hope in King's Landing, confusion and loyalty in the Vale, and fear and abandonment during her marriage to Ramsay. The tumultuous ride of emotions that Lord Baelish had inflicted on her journey into womanhood was not one she'd ever want repeated. And yet, she still felt the loss of him acutely. It was bittersweet, with the greater emphasis on sweet, but still a loss nonetheless. It would just take time.

And the Hound was here. Sansa reflected on the last time she'd seen him. He'd been drunk after the battle of the Blackwater, hiding in her room. Full of anger, yet wanting something from her, he'd been threatening toward the girl. But Sansa remembered the wetness that was not blood which she'd felt on his cheek when she'd held it. _What had he wanted?_ It seemed that he had only come to insult her as he always did then, mocking her naivete. Still, he'd only left after she'd refused to go with him, after he realized he wouldn't get what he wanted from her.

 _What had he wanted though? I was helpless with no guards, no one to care if he'd raped me. It's not like he couldn't have taken me then if he wanted._ She shuddered at the thought. _No, he told me he'd never hurt me. I still don't believe he ever would. Maybe he only wanted a highborn hostage that wouldn't have to be taken as an unwilling captive_. This made the most sense to her, and Sansa dismissed the thought while she finished readying for supper.

She put on a deep blue wool gown and covered it with her long fur cloak. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back, held in place by small braids which pulled back at the temples and drew the attention to her piercing blue eyes. She caught her appearance quickly in the looking glass, made a few adjustments to her hair and clothing, before turning and heading toward the dining hall.

The ladies and lord of the castle were to sit upon the high table, Sansa in the middle with Bran to her right, and Arya to her left. The Hound was seated with them, along with maester Wolkan, Lord Royce of the Vale, the new steward of Winterfell, and several other officers. When Sansa took her seat, she smiled and nodded to the servants to signal the meal to begin.

Sandor had been struggling to regain his normal brooding composure ever since Sansa had taken her leave of the hall earlier that day. She'd been so curt and dismissive, he now feared she'd not want his service and would send him away the moment she learned of his purpose. He told himself that she'd been unnerved by the execution of a man who claimed to love her and the timing was poor. Still, as much as he hoped this was the reason for her behavior, he couldn't help but wonder if this new Sansa had any need for the service of a man like him.

She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her features were strikingly feminine, and her height and figure gave her an elegance that many other lovely ladies could only envy. Her ivory skin contrasted perfectly with the fire in her hair and the deep blue of her eyes so that she appeared almost as a goddess to him. When Sansa smiled he felt the familiar ache in his chest and he found himself admiring the elegance of her cheekbones. _Listen to yourself, you're acting like a damned fool knight from one of her songs. She's a lady you're here to offer your protection for, nothing more_. He bent his head over the soup which had been the first course and turned his thoughts to the pleasure of finally being warm and fed.

Introductions and courtesies were swapped as expected of their stations, and the initial talk was of trifling matters. After several minutes, Sansa turned to Sandor and inquired, "To what purpose do we owe the pleasure of your company, er, Clegane? I apologize, by what title do you prefer to be addressed? I seem to remember an aversion to being called a 'ser.'"

"Call me whatever you want, it makes no difference to me."

"He seems to respond to 'Dumb Cunt,' mostly," Arya quipped, and then quickly ducked her head down to her bowl grinning and cowering from the the anticipated backlash.

"Arya!" Sansa glared. "I'm sure you're used to my sister by now, Sandor, but she's no longer living like a fugitive and will hopefully soon begin to remember her courtesies." Sansa turned to Arya with a raised eyebrow as she finished the sentence, and Arya just grinned at Sandor.

The sound of his given name on Sansa's lips had given him greater pleasure than he dared let on, but he tried to ignore this by chuckling at Arya and pretending to be very interested in finishing his soup. She continued, "As we were saying, you came here with the intention of...?"

"He has come because the army of the Night King steadily advances and he wishes to serve as your protector, sister, as he tried to do in King's Landing." The authority of Bran's voice always silenced all who heard, and the Hound looked at him now with disbelief. Bran turned to Sansa and continued, "despite the limited capacity he had to protect while in the service of Joffrey, he always extended his protection of you as far as he dared, and for no personal gain. You would be wise to accept the service of a man with his loyalties."

Bran finished as abruptly as he had started, and resumed eating his soup as if nothing had occurred out of the ordinary. Sansa had the grace to blush, and Sandor just stared at Bran with incredulity. "What... what are you, boy?"

"He is the three-eyed-raven now, there will be time to explain later, but for now he is still a lord in courtesy and will be addressed as such. He is not a 'boy.'" Sansa's rebuke was gentle, but firm, and Sandor gave an abrupt nod of acquiescence before he started on the next course of capon baked in butter and herbs.

There was silence for a moment, before Sandor spoke again. "The young Lord has the truth of it. I came from a mission beyond the wall with your brother and some others." He related the experience to those at the table, seeing the army of the Dead, being trapped on the island, then rescued by the dragon Queen. "Jon sails now to King's Landing with the wight to show Cersei with the hope of frightening her into a truce."

Sansa nodded. "This was why I was summoned to the capital. I sent Brienne to represent the North."

Sandor looked up quickly. "Brienne?" He looked to Arya. "The same Brienne? That giant of a woman who almost killed me?"

Arya nodded. "Brienne is sworn to protect my mother's daughters. She has served my sister well."

The Hound snorted, "Served her? Where was she when Sansa was sold to that bastard Bolton?"

Sansa paled at the mention of her rapist and torturer, but regained her composure quickly. "Brienne is not to blame for my treatment by Ramsay. It was my fault for not accepting her protection, and the fault of the man I executed this morning." The heat rose in her face and voice in remembrance of the ordeal. "Both my 'husband' and the man who sold me to him have been executed at my command, as will be the fate of every man who attempts to use or harm me again." She looked directly at Sandor as she said this, and he was taken aback at her fierceness.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, but held Sansa's gaze. "My lady, your brother has the right of it. I'm done with the Lannister fuckers and serving people like them. I've seen what's coming for all of us and I'm here to fight for the living. Your brother, Jon, is fighting the only war that matters and I mean to support him." He looked at Bran, still unnerved by his knowledge, then back to Sansa and continued. "While he's gone, you're the leader of the Northmen and you need soldiers you can trust to guard your back. I came to protect you from Littlefinger, but it seems you were not deceived by him, and removed that threat yourself. I can't say I wasn't impressed. Still, you need a sworn shield. Let me be the man for it."

Sansa lifted her chin slightly. "I have a sworn shield. Brienne swore an oath to protect me and my sister."

Arya snorted. "I'm good."

The Hound continued, "Brienne is a thousand leagues away and there's no promise anyone will return."

Sansa knew she'd been beaten. There was no reason to deny him anymore. She turned to Bran who remained emotionless and returned her gaze with the same unfazed solemnity he always had since he'd returned to Winterfell. She looked for silent approval to her maester and Arya, and then turned back to Sandor. She stood. "Very well. Sandor Clegane, you shall be my sworn shield."

Sandor rose, unsheathed his blade and circled the table to stand in front of her. For a moment he looked down into her eyes and said nothing. Then he knelt before her and laid his sword at her feet. "I offer my services, Lady Stark," he rasped, "I will shield your back, keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa's pulse quickened at the look he'd had in his eyes before he'd knelt _. He is a soldier who needs a lord or lady to serve to feel complete. This has nothing to do with me, just my title. Don't be an idiot, Sansa_. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise, Sandor Clegane."

Sandor rose and sheathed his sword. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them. It was only a moment, but Sansa grew uncomfortable and averted her eyes. Sandor turned to those watching at the table, "Well, I believe I was promised meat and mead and both are getting cold." His grin lit up his face, making the burned side of his mouth twitch, but Sansa only noticed how different he looked when he smiled. _Almost handsome_. She shook her head at her own thoughts, and gave a small laugh at his comment. She gestured him to his seat and took her own again. Her laugh ended with a little sigh and she smiled at her companions. "Dead armies, dragons...Cersei." She shook her head. "I think the mead sounds pretty good right now."


	3. Chapter 3

Streaks of golden light passed through the openings between the plain dark curtains in Sandor's quarters. A week had passed since his appointment to Sansa's guard, and he'd taken up residence in a room adjacent to the Lord's chambers, where Sansa stayed, which was intended for personal guards to be in close proximity to the object of their protection. He was accustomed to rising at first light, so it was no difficulty to adjust to his new schedule, serving another highborn. _Hopefully this one is worthy of service_. He chuckled to himself for bothering to wonder, since he already knew the answer. He had been pleasantly surprised at the ease with which he had been given the position he desired; life was rarely so generous.

He splashed freezing water on his face to shock the sleep from his bones and shuddered as the chill went through his entire body. After drying, he pulled breeches over his underclothes, donned a clean tunic, and pulled on his boots. During the tedious process of putting on his armor, his thoughts roved to the woman likely still asleep in the next room.

He thought of her auburn hair tossed about her pillow, her delicate features softened in sleep. He saw her smooth, ivory skin in his mind's eye, covered only with the soft fabric of her nightdress. Sandor felt a familiar swell in his pants and cursed himself. Closing his eyes, he forcibly shoved the thoughts from his mind, making a mental note to seek out a brothel at his next opportunity. It would never do to be a sworn shield who couldn't control his thoughts about the lady he protected. He finished strapping on a gauntlet and left the room.

The morning was crisp and frozen, and a dusting of snow lay across the railings and hard-packed ground of the courtyard. Sandor took his position outside Sansa's door. He'd forgotten how boring it was to be a sworn sword. Still, he'd take boredom over hunger and sleeping in the frozen woods, scraping an existence. From his sentry position, he could see some of the comings and goings of those in the castle, and he entertained himself with people watching. He eyed the women as men are wont to do, but found himself holding up every feature they possessed against Sansa in comparison. _Idiot, Clegane. Why do you torture yourself with these kind of thoughts? Be content with whores, the only women who can bear to look on a face like yours._

A scream, weak and pitiful, shattered the peaceful scene before him. It came from behind the door, followed by sounds of a struggle, and a heavy thud. Sandor's eyes widened in panic. He turned in place and banged on the door. "Lady Stark? Sansa?!"

"I...I'm all right," came the reply, which sounded groggy and confused. "Please call for the handmaiden," she added timidly.

He was uncertain and paused, but finally did as he was bid. The handmaiden, when she came, looked to be in no great hurry and with no surprise written on her features. She requested entrance, and it was granted, allowing her to slip inside the room. Soft, feminine voices could be heard, but he could not make out the words. They moved about the room, and after a minute of listening, Sandor squinted at the closed door in confusion, then shook his head in dismissal. _Women_ , he thought.

After ten minutes or so, the handmaiden opened the door again. "Lady Stark would see you inside, ser." She bobbed a quick curtsy, then headed down the hall to her morning duties, leaving Sandor standing awkwardly by the open door. He glanced inside and saw Sansa seated by the window at a small bench. She turned and nodded at him. Sandor entered the room, closing the door behind him. He stopped in the center of the room and clasped his hands in front of him. "My lady?"

"Clegane," she paused and looked up into his eyes, "Sandor," she corrected, and smiled weakly. "Won't you please sit down?"

"I'd rather stand."

She nodded and looked out the window again, staring into the distance, but not seeing. After a silence that was nearly long enough to provoke him into speaking, Sansa turned back to him. "I thought it would be wise to acquaint you with my...situation." She paused and looked up at the huge man who was now sworn to protect her. She drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, then opened them again as she exhaled in a sigh. "I believe you're aware of my...treatment...while in Ramsay's custody?"

Sandor felt uncomfortable then, and he shifted his feet. "Aye. He was cruel to you. Like Joffrey?"

Sansa laughed a bitter laugh. "Joffrey. Joffrey was nothing but a spoiled little boy compared to Ramsay." She was speaking to a little crevice in the stone floor, every word tinged with bitterness and anger, and her fingers picked idly at a seam on her skirt.

She looked up again and met Sandor's eyes. "He was a monster."

The air was heavy with her pain, and Sandor was uncomfortable again. "So your scream this morning was...?" He knew the answer to his own question.

She swallowed hard and nodded. When she felt her voice could be trusted she looked up again and explained. "I've had dreadful dreams since I've returned to Winterfell. Even being in this room again," she gestured around her bitterly, "Jon was kind to offer it to me, but it's not Mother and Father I see in my memories when I look about this room. I see him." She met Sandor's eyes then, and he saw equal parts hate and hurt. "Would you like to know what he did to me?"

Sandor didn't break eye contact. "He raped you? Hit you?"

She smiled without humor. "Yes, when he was feeling kind." More silence as she chewed her lips, wrestling with her inner self. She looked up at him, then back out the window. Suddenly she sighed and lifted her skirt to reveal one of her legs, up to her hips. Sandor looked away respectfully, but she said, "I don't need your chivalry at the moment, Clegane, I need your eyes so you can understand."

Her sharp words surprised him, but he did as he was bid. Sansa's long white leg was marred at regular intervals by purple scars. He sucked in his breath, then took a step closer to see better, going down on one knee. The skirts were between her legs so as to still provide modesty, and he pulled off a gauntlet slowly. The sick violence that her scars represented felt like a punch to the gut, and Sandor thought he might be sick. He reached out to touch a particularly deep scar on her thigh, where it appeared parts of her skin had been peeled away. "Little bird..." he breathed, and she flinched at his touch.

His fingers moved from one scar to the next, a lump in his throat as he imagined the pain she'd endured to create each mark on her soft skin. When he moved to a long, jagged scar along the inside of her thigh, she touched his hand. Sandor looked up at her face and there were tears brimming in her beautiful blue eyes. She threw the skirts back over her leg and looked out the window again as she wiped the tears with the back of her hand. Then her chin shot up a little and she took a deep breath, seeming to regain her composure.

"And now you know." She stood quickly and looked down at him. "If you hear me in distress in the night, it's likely a night terror. The maester has seen me about them several times, but I fear only time will bring them to an end."

She spoke matter-of-factly now, attempting to distance herself from the emotion of her ordeal and Sandor rose to his feet. When Sansa looked up to meet his eyes, she saw the pain in them. "I do not ask for your pity, ser, I merely wanted to explain this only once, and explain it fully." The moment of vulnerability had passed and Sansa the strong lady of Winterfell had returned.

Sandor took one step closer to her and looked down into her eyes. "I know something of pity, Sansa, I've spent a lifetime seeing it in everyone's eyes. Yours too, once. It isn't pity I feel, but your pain is my pain." He pushed her hair back from her cheek instinctively. "I hate myself for not being there to save you, little bird. And I'm no ser."  
Sansa gasped and faltered under his touch. "I...you...You couldn't have protected me. No one can protect me." She pulled away from him and turned around abruptly. "That will be all, Clegane."  
He stared at her back, hating himself for saying too much. Then he turned and left her room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry, I had to update this upload because it didn't save my chapter breaks. I may have mentioned already, but I plan to go slowly with Sansa and Sandor's relationship. There is some sexual content in this chapter however, so if that's what you've come for, you'll get a small tease :D**

Chapter 4

Sansa was curt and short with Sandor for the rest of the day. Their interactions were professional only, and she spoke to him only when she needed to. She took her appointments with her men, met with the maester, and took her meals, speaking very little to him. The moment when he was relieved of duty he returned to his quarters and began removing his armor.

 _You fool, couldn't keep your damn mouth shut._ He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. His thoughts turned to her scars and the rage he'd had to suppress all day burst forth. He slammed a fist onto the pillow and clenched his jaw, seething. _I wish that fucker wasn't dead, I'd rip him apart with my own hands._ His frustration at upsetting Sansa, and helplessness to protect her from what she had already endured, drove him out the door in search of a whore. There were only two ways he knew to distract himself from his anger when fighting couldn't serve. Fucking and drinking. Tonight was for fucking.

He strode out the door, grabbing his heavy cloak as he went and headed toward the winter town beyond the castle gates. There he'd find a brothel and a warm cunt. He kicked a bucket over as he stormed out, cursing.

Sansa watched him from her balcony and surmised his purpose. She clenched her teeth and lifted her chin in defiance. _And why should you care where he goes on his own time? You were the one who was cruel to him._ She touched her cheek where his fingers had caressed her and closed her eyes. _"I hate myself for not being there to save you, little bird."_ How those words had startled her. And the look in his eyes had betrayed something else. _Does he care for me?_

She looked at his figure disappearing into the night and frowned. _Clearly not._ She spun around and stalked to her room, slamming the door behind her. The maids had just finished preparing her bath and Sansa began angrily tearing her clothes off. The girls rushed from the room, eager to be away from their lady's anger. The tears came unbidden to her eyes and she brushed them away impatiently. _You're still just a stupid girl, just like he always said._

When she was naked she stood before her looking glass the same way she did every night. The scars Ramsay had given her looked raw and purple, like ugly worms all over her once perfect skin. They dragged across her breasts and stomach, her upper arms, and both legs. She ran her fingers across them, felt their familiar edges, and the thin silky skin that had formed over them.

The scream that rose up inside of her was pure rage, long and agonizing, and ended in a violent sob. She turned away from the glass and climbed into her wood and copper tub. The steaming water felt like a healing salve and she sank into it, letting it wash over her skin, turning it as red as her hair. Sansa gathered her arms around her knees, rested her forehead on them, and wept.

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"She'll do," he grunted at the only redhead in the brothel, and the matron nodded, taking his coin and gesturing to the girl. The girl smiled at him, attempting to hide her crooked bottom teeth, and failing. He finished the cup of ale he'd been drinking and followed her to the room upstairs.

She was a curvy girl, who'd apparently not felt any effects of the famine which had plagued the Riverlands and below. Her breasts were heavy, with freckles across the tops of them, and her cheeks and nose as well. She had round eyes and a round face which was wearing the same coy smile that had showed him her crooked teeth downstairs. "What would you be wanting out of me tonight, milord?"

He grimaced. "Just your cunt." He tore her clothes off and turned her around, pushing her toward the bed."And I'm not a lord."

"You can be whatever you want to be in here mil—ser." She sounded idiotic, trying to be sexy, while he shoved down onto the bed.

"I'm not a ser." He growled, "and I'd rather no talking.

She gave a strange squeak of assent while he stripped her of her smallclothes, and no more words came out of her mouth. She was far from his type, but from this position, if she kept her mouth shut, her white skin and red hair might do it for him. He ripped off his tunic and stepped out of his breeches and smallclothes. He closed his eyes and began to stroke his cock, which was beginning to swell as he made the moment right.

He opened his eyes just long enough to position himself right in front of the large white ass that was waiting for him. His huge hand grabbed it and squeezed so hard that she squealed again and attempted a sexy purr. He pressed his cock against her and entered her slowly, closing his eyes as a small groan escaped his lips. She arched into him and he began to thrust in and out, getting his rhythm. He grabbed her long hair for leverage with one hand and grasped her hip with the other, releasing his frustration into this whore.

In his mind he saw her lying on her bed, ivory skin, red hair, perfect features. She opened her blue eyes to look up into his and he groaned her name. "Sansa," he rasped, breathless, picturing her curves, her smile, her beautiful face. In his mind he touched her cheek while he brushed the hair away from her face, and she closed her eyes and kissed his hand. "Fuuuck," he groaned, slowing his pace as his cock pulsed and throbbed, spilling his seed deep into the whore's cunt. With a final thrust he removed himself from her, and immediately began to pull his clothes back on.

The whore rolled over and attempted another coy smile at him. "You don't want to lie back and rest after, milord?" He snorted and ignored her. "They always call me 'Sansa' when they're in their pleasure. Every man wants to fuck a lady." She grinned and stroked her large thigh, then drew her hand up to her nipple and squeezed it.

Sandor glared at her. "I never said 'Sansa,' stupid cunt." He tossed her clothes at her and stalked from the room.

His cock still pulsed against him and he took a deep breath as he closed the door behind him, leaning against it briefly and closing his eyes. He'd had his pleasure, same as he'd done a hundred times before, always with whores, always with coin. _And still I feel like shit._ He clenched his jaw and returned to his room in Winterfell.

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The large mug in his hand came down to the table with such force that ale sloshed over the top onto his hand. "So you killed the bitch in the dark?" Sandor laughed loudly.

Across from him at the table, Arya grinned and nodded. "It seemed that miss 'I-know-everything' had forgotten how long I'd trained blind." She flipped out the catspaw dagger from its sheath. With her eyes closed, she turned it deftly in her hands a few times, and then in a swift motion she buried it in the wood just millimeters from Sandor's hand.

He jerked his hand back. "Damn it girl, warn a man before you plan to take a finger," he growled and brought the ale back to his mouth where he downed a huge gulp, and then wiped his mouth. It was the day after he'd visited the brothel, and today he had no duties to perform, as the first day off in the 10 days since his first arrival at Winterfell.

"I'll fight you," it was a half question, and Arya looked up at him with a raised brow as she said it. "In the yard. I could use the training, especially since Brienne left."

Sandor chuckled and shook his head. "I've already been nearly killed by one bitch, I don't plan to make the same mistake twice."

"I thought it was just water dancing?" Arya teased.

"Aye, before you went across the narrow sea and learned how to wear faces the same as I'm wearing this cloak!" He slapped his shoulder as he said it, and shook his head grinning. "Dare you to wear my face, you wouldn't last a day. You'd bury that knife in your own throat and be done." He took another gulp of ale.

"You're very hard on yourself, Clegane," Sansa's voice startled him, and he stood when she approached the table. Arya, never startled by anyone anymore, merely looked at the table and chuckled at the awkward position the Hound had been caught in. Sansa continued, "Every warrior has scars. Yours have made you fearsome to behold. I like my sworn shield to be fearsome."

"I hope you like him drunk, too," Arya laughed.

Sandor growled and glared down at Arya before turning back to Sansa. She seemed to have forgotten her anger of the day before. "Aye, my lady, I am fearsome." He took another step toward her. "I remember when you couldn't even look at me."

She took another step toward him, until their noses were six inches apart. "And I remember when I thought Joffrey was the picture of my domestic happiness." She arched an eyebrow. "Tell me more foolish things about me as a child so we can all have some more laughter. I could use a laugh." She picked up his cup of ale then, never breaking his eye contact, and took a swig. Then she collapsed on the bench next to Arya and held the mug out to Sandor with a small, half-suppressed smile.

He grinned at her and took the ale, finishing it in one more gulp, and then beckoning to a servant for more. He was relieved to see that she was no longer angry with him. "Speaking of that blonde prick, your sister and I unfortunately missed the pleasure of seeing him die. Care to share the details?"

Sansa laughed then, a real laugh that reached her eyes, and Sandor felt the familiar stab in his chest. There was nothing like seeing her happy. He grinned again and Arya laughed. "Is it true he turned purple?" Arya bit her lip and smiled huge in excited anticipation.

Sansa was giggling now. She'd been brought her own cup of ale, and took another gulp. She wasn't used to raucous drinking, though, and some spilled out the side. "My lady!" Arya said in her most horrified Septa Mordane impression, and then doubled over laughing as Sansa tried and failed to not let her ale come bursting back out of her mouth. Sansa wiped her lips with the back of her hand, almost crying with laughter, and looked apologetically up at the Hound. "Please forgive my sister and me," she said breathlessly. "The weeks after she came home with Lord Baelish attempting to pit us against each other were taxing." She sighed, and took another sip, slower this time. "It is good to have a laugh again. I've been so tired and stressed." _And behaving like a fool._

Arya put a hand on Sansa's. "You're the lady of Winterfell, and you do a damn good job of it." They smiled at one another, and Arya added, "When you're not spewing ale." Another shrill giggle from both.

Sandor realized how much he loved seeing them together. Two girls whom he'd spent time protecting, both in their different ways. Two girls as different as girls could be, yet they were undoubtedly important to one another. _You care for them, Sandor._

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He hadn't cared for anyone since his mother. He sipped his ale as he watched them laughing together, Sansa filling Arya in on the details of Joffrey's death, Arya laughing like the twisted little killer she was. Undoubtedly he cared for them both, cared for their safety. He looked at Arya. She was like a daughter, a younger sister, a friend. Yes, he cared a great deal for her. He looked at Sansa, who felt his gaze and returned it, smiling.

 _You love her._


	5. Chapter 5

The raven had come in the early hours of the morning, and the maester went to Sansa's room immediately with the news. She heard the knock in the distance, trying to pull her out of her sleep. He knocked again and softly called, "Lady Stark." Sansa's eyes flitted open and she saw the walls of his room, heard his voice at the door. Panic shot through her body as she flipped onto her back, kicking herself against the pillows, pushing as far away from the door as she could get. She began to hyperventilate and cry, covering her face with her hands. "No, no, no please!" She begged breathlessly, choking with sobs.

"My lady, it is all right!" The Maester had entered the room with a candle, which he quickly set on the table, before moving toward the bed. He placed a hand gently on her back, "Lady Sansa." She jerked away from him, still weeping, sucking in air as fast as her lungs could go, grasping at the sheets and bedcover with pale hands.

Sandor had arisen from the commotion and run from his room only taking a moment to throw his breeches on over his underclothes. "Maester?" he questioned, as he stepped in the room. "What's happened?" He looked at Sansa who was panicking and looked paler than he'd ever seen her.

"There was a raven and I was told to bring my lady any news as soon as it came," he said to Sandor over his shoulder. "Lady Stark is having one of her terrors." The maester continued to speak calmly to Sansa, trying to pull her back to the present.

Sansa heard their voices and the darkness that had obscured her vision began to recede. Realization of her present situation came over her and her breathing slowed. She looked to the maester, and then at Sandor standing behind him with concern in his brown eyes. She choked a little as she tried to swallow the rest of her sobs, and regain composure. "I-I'm sorry, I thought…" she trailed off and the maester shushed her.

"The terrors are coming less often, my lady," he said, hoping to cheer her. "Soon, I hope they will no longer plague you." Sansa nodded, and looked ashamed. She realized how cold it was and hugged herself, looking up at Sandor then.

He was shirtless and the candlelight on his huge, muscular form was impressive. She realized that she was surprised to not see the burn scars extending onto his body as well. _Of course, only his face was burned._ The hair on his chest enhanced the masculinity of the man standing before her, and she realized with a shock that his appearance pleased her. She felt a queer ache between her legs as her eyes roved his body, ending at his face. When her eyes met his, he grinned. _Oh gods, he saw me staring!_

Sansa colored, and hoped he couldn't see her blush in the dim lighting. _What were we talking of?_ The maester had been looking at Sansa, checking her pulse, fussing over her, and hadn't noticed what had caught her attention. "You seem to be quite yourself again, my lady, are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, yes, I am well, thank you." Lady Sansa had returned, in voice and demeanor. "Was there a raven?"

"Yes, my lady." He procured a small roll of parchment from his sleeve and handed it to Sansa. She unrolled it and her eyes began to move back and forth across the paper. The maester and Sandor waited to see if she would share its contents. She looked up at the maester, and then at Sandor.

"It is from Jon. Cersei has accepted the truce."

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News of the scroll's contents spread quickly throughout the castle, and it was the word on every man's lips while they broke their fast that morning. Most conversations expressed disbelief that Cersei would come to any terms with anyone, dead men or no. Sandor shared their suspicions, but ate in silence. Jon had written of his imminent return to Winterfell with the dragon queen, and all their armies following close behind, so the Starks were conferring and making plans.

Sandor remembered the events in the night, as he ripped off a chunk of bread and stuffed it in his mouth. Sansa's terror had filled him with a sadness that was unfamiliar to him. There was no reason he should feel anything, the girl's fright was just a memory, showing no current danger to her. _But that had been her reality, every day with that fucker._ He took a gulp from his mug and slammed it down a little too heavily. _I hope he died a shit death._

And she'd looked at him. He hadn't even realized that he was shirtless until he caught her staring. _She was just dazed, she wasn't looking at you._ Still, the thought that the flash of hunger he'd seen in her eyes had been a result of seeing his semi-nakedness made him hard. He clenched his teeth and willed himself to calm down. _These fuckers will think food makes my cock hard._ He shrugged and chuckled to himself as he took another wolfish bite. _Well, it's not too far from the truth._

He finished his meal and headed to Sansa's solar where she'd gone before dawn and requested her brother and sister be brought to her at first light. He positioned himself outside the open door, but Sansa saw him arrive and beckoned him in.

"Sandor, please, I would have a word with you." He stepped inside obediently and stood before her. Bran was seated near the fire in his wheeled chair, and Arya stood by the window, absently flipping her knife back and forth in her hands. Sansa was seated prettily, as befit a lady, behind a table where ink pots, quills and parchment littered the surface. She clasped her hands together in front of her, and looked up at him. "Won't you sit down?" Her eyebrow arched as she spoke.

"I'd rather stand."

The half-smile that crept up one side of her face was one of familiarity, amused at his predictable response. She stifled it quickly enough, however, and returned to her lady composure. "Very well. Clegane, I believe you have met Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Aye, of a sort."

Sansa's look was a question begging his further explanation, so he continued. "Well, there wasn't much to be learned about her while on the back of her dragon." He shrugged, "After we reached Eastwatch I saw little of her. She was distraught when she thought your brother was lost to us."

"She was distraught?" Sansa quieried. Sandor nodded and continued. "She was with Mormont much of the time, but then Jon returned, and they set sail almost immediately."

"So you can't tell us anything about her?"

"She's got white hair, a pretty thing. Three large dragons—"

Sansa cut him off, not in the mood for time wasting, "Thank you, Sandor, I understand."

Arya spoke then, turning her back to the window. "Sansa, you know you can ask our very own three-eyed-raven if there's something you want to know." She said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and jerked the hilt of her knife in the direction of Bran, raising both brows. Sansa blinked at her, her face unflinching. Arya blinked back, and cocked her head with a look of smug satisfaction.

Sansa took the defeat with courtesy and finally smiled and said, "You're right." She turned her attention to Bran, who stared into the flames.

Bran glanced up after a moment and looked at Sansa. "What do you need to know about her?"

Sansa looked frustrated. "Her character, her loyalties, her purpose would be a start. What does she want with the Seven Kingdoms, what does she plan to do with her dragons? Can she be trusted?" She looked up at Sandor and gestured to him, "He says she's beautiful, Lord Baelish said she's beautiful, what if Jon is thinking with his—like a man," she caught herself before she'd been crass.

Bran looked into the flames again and grew silent. Finally he spoke. "I have already seen Daenerys in my visions, I saw her when I first became the three-eyed-raven."

More silence. Sansa's impatience was palpable. "And?" She questioned, exasperated.

Bran looked back at her, and then at Arya. "She is the mother of dragons and breaker of chains. The people who follow her believe in her because she has strength and compassion." He looked back into the flames. "She is a Targaryen and she must struggle with the weaknesses that her blood is prone to, but her heart is kind, and she would be a just ruler. Jon bent the knee to her because he believes in her."

Sansa pressed her fingertips against her mouth as she thought. Finally, she placed her hands on the table and stood. "There is nothing more to be done then. Jon has pledged the North to her cause, and she has joined our fight against the dead. She will be welcomed to Winterfell when she returns with our brother."

Bran looked at Sansa again who had begun to leave the room and Sandor saw him open his mouth as if to speak, and then close it. He seemed to change his mind and resumed his gaze into the fire.

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The following day, a man who claimed to be of the Night's Watch reached the castle along with a woman and baby. Sansa had received him with courtesies, but was busy with preparations for Jon's arrival so her patience was thinner than usual. When he'd requested to see Bran, she was relieved to give him her hearty consent, and return to her business.

Sandor watched as Sansa conferred with her bannermen, made decisions with the steward, and gave directions to the men of the castle. She was a true lady of Winterfell, and she led with strength and intelligence. To have gone from place to place, always a captive would have broken many a weaker spirit, but Sansa seemed to have taken strength from her suffering and learned from the men and women who'd held her captive. She trusted no one explicitly, was cautious in all her decisions, and always planned for the worst case scenario. Sandor was impressed. The realization was bittersweet for him. He loved to see her as the master of her own self now, not to mention the entire North, but it outlined the chasm between their stations in life drastically.

 _You're a soldier, just a burned dog here for her protection. She's a lady, a ruler, highborn._ He was certain that she was glad to have him, and she smiled at him often, making light conversation when time allowed, but she was still far above him. There were moments where her eyes met his and he thought that there was something else there, but then she'd speak as lady Sansa, or turn away, and the moment would be gone.

Sansa, despite the work and preparations to be done for Jon's arrival, found herself distracted constantly. She realized that she was acutely aware of Sandor's presence, whether he stood behind her, to her side, in front of her, it made no matter. Her stomach would tie in knots and her thoughts would drift back to him. She was beyond frustrated with herself, and tried to focus all her attention on the tasks at hand. Her bannermen would be speaking to her and she'd find her mind wandering to his bare chest, to his fingers touching the scars on her leg. She'd have to ask them to repeat themselves and try to pass it off as having much on her mind with Jon's impending arrival. _What do you hope to accomplish with this infatuation? Are you hoping that he loves you? You're just a child to him. And why would you want his love, he's your sworn shield and can never be more than that._

The evening after Samwell's arrival, Sansa was in her room, finally finished with her work for the day and preparing to head to the hall for her supper. A servant knocked and she bid him enter. He bowed quickly, "My lady, you are requested in the godswood by your lord brother."

Sansa was exhausted. "Now?" she asked wearily. He looked apologetic, "Yes, my lady, he has also requested your sister and some of the lords bannermen."

Sansa stood. This was important, or Bran would not have called an audience. "Thank you, Wyl, I will attend immediately." He bowed himself out of the room. Sansa grabbed her cloak and met Sandor at the door. "We're going to the godswood."

When they arrived, Bran wore the same solemn face that he wore all the time now—a look that knew everything, and was always calm. Sansa joined Arya in standing across from him, along with a few of the higher lords, Samwell Tarly, and the maester.

"I have seen the Night King." He wasted no time, "He has raised the dragon that Daenerys lost and rides it." Gasps burst from the small circle of people gathered in the godswood, the air freezing in front of their faces in puffs of smoke. Bran continued, "The beast breathes a frozen flame that spits destruction. Eastwatch by the Sea has fallen." A ripple of murmurs erupted.

"Has…has fallen?" Sansa questioned, alarmed. "Well surely we can send reinforcements, we can hold the gate—"

Bran's eyes looked black as his gaze met hers. "The wall has fallen."


	6. Chapter 6

**If you're like me, then this chapter is what most of you have come for ;) Thank you for the reviews and follows!**

Chapter 6

Sansa had been pacing her room since she'd returned from the godswood, biting her lip and pulling the hair back from her face with both hands. Sandor watched for a moment from the threshold, but since she'd not bothered to close the door upon her return, he ventured in after her, and closed the door, fearing that words said too loudly might panic the castle.

"My lady," he started, but she cut him off, approaching him now from the section of room she'd been pacing.

"It's fallen, Sandor! It's never fallen!" Her eyes were wide. "It's stood for thousands of years and now it's fallen and they're coming! They're coming for you and me and my brother and sister and there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide anymore!" She spoke so quickly, he thought she'd run out of breath, her arms gesturing angrily with each outburst. She continued feverishly, "I've only just begun to live my own life not as someone's captive, there's so many things I haven't done, and now I might only have days left, days before I and everyone I've ever known and loved becomes a new corpse in the army of the dead!" Her voice had risen to almost a shout.

"Sansa!" He grabbed her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "You're panicking, you'll make yourself sick. Take a breath, girl."

She looked at him wide-eyed and inhaled deeply, but she choked on the breath which became a sob. "I'm not ready to die, Sandor," she looked up at him with tears pooling in her pretty blue eyes, frustrated at herself for showing her weakness.

He softened at the fear in her voice, and wanted only to comfort her. "Little bird, I won't let you die." Possessed by the moment, the complete upset of all normalcy that the news had brought, he dared to take her face in one of his hands. "I'll protect you."

Sansa gasped softly, and pulled away from his touch, embarrassed. She blinked, letting her tears fall, and wiped them with her sleeve. But she seemed to calm slightly. "How can you protect me from-from that?" Her eyes met his again, "If what you and Bran say is true, they'll outnumber us ten to one, and Jon said at Hardhome the Night King just raised the newly dead and added them too! An army that grows as ours falls!" She grew bold in the intensity of her subject, taking a step toward him.

Sandor looked down at her. "Aye, the army of the dead frightens me too, but what do you want to do, crawl into a hole now and end it?" She folded her arms and looked at the stone floor. "When they come, we'll be as ready as we can be, and we'll fight and live or fight and die, but I'll not leave you alone, you have my word."

Sansa looked up at him and knew he was right. She unfolded her arms slowly and drew closer to him. Adrenaline from Bran's news coursed through her, and she seemed to have thrown all propriety to the wind. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she only breathed softly and gingerly placed her fingers on his breastplate. She seemed to battle with herself for a moment, looking at her own hazy reflection in his armor, and tracing the grooves in the metal slowly.

Sandor's pulse quickened, and he stood rooted to the spot. Her eyes lifted to his again and she almost whispered, "I might have only days left to live and I've never even been with a man, though I've been married twice." As an afterthought, "Well, I mean, not truly." She looked back at his armor, breathless from her own audacity, her heart racing with her heedless choice of words.

"No, what Ramsay did to you was not truly 'being with a man.' Not in the way you mean." He couldn't believe he was discussing this with her. His heart pounded.

"You know the way I mean, then?" Her voice was soft and barely audible.

 _She wants to hear me say it._ "You've never made love to a man."

She looked into his eyes and sucked in air sharply, not knowing what she wanted from him, what her purpose was in driving him to say what he said. She nodded and her mouth was open. Her eyes blinked slowly at him. She waited for she knew not what.

Sandor's mouth went dry and he felt his heart thumping in his chest so loudly he was certain Sansa could hear. He straightened, trying to appear nonchalant, and shrugged, "Can't say I've made love either, and I've had much longer of a time at this life than you have."

Sansa gasped. "What? How is that possible?" She removed her hand from his breastplate and took a step back. "You've been-you've been to the brothel. I-" she blushed, "I've seen you."

He looked surprised, but chuckled softly at her naivete. "A whore does not love, my lady, she's bought with coin."

Sansa blushed again at the inappropriate content of their conversation. "But-but you've only ever been with whores?" She was surprised.

A flash of anger came unbidden, and his walls shot up again. "Aye, little bird, and what woman would want this?" He thrust a finger at his burnt skin, his eyes flashing. "Tell me, what do you see when you look at me? It's not a sight to please women. Not a handsome knight from one of your songs" He turned away.

Sansa softened, realizing she'd hurt him. Everything else seemed to fall away. She forgot her fear, forgot the wall and the dead, and Jon, and the Seven Kingdoms. She only wanted to make him see what she saw.

"I see a man who traveled halfway across the country to protect me," she said softly.

He turned back to her and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the sting.

Sansa continued, and took a step toward him. "I see strong arms that once saved me from rape and death in King's Landing," She touched his arm as she said it. "I see eyes that are handsome when you smile, and have always been kind, even when you try to hide it."

She was looking into them now. "I see scars that show your strength," her fingers gently caressed the burned side of his face, tracing the dips and ridges softly, "and lips," she was whispering now, possessed with the moment as she drew closer to him, gliding her thumb slowly across his lower lip, "lips that still call me your little bird..." Her hand trembled against his rough beard and each breath felt deliberate. Time seemed to stop.

Her eyes moved from his mouth, back up to meet his gaze and she saw that he'd lost all restraint. In a swift motion his hands cupped her face and he kissed her passionately, releasing all that he'd held inside for the past weeks, no, years that he'd cared for her. Sansa opened her mouth to his and returned the kiss with equal fervor, sliding her hands behind his head. Their breaths came ragged and fast in their passion, and Sandor had to pull away for a moment, resting his forehead to hers and looking into her eyes. Her hands slid down on top of his as he held her face.

Their heavy breathing slowed momentarily. Sandor pulled back slightly and rasped, "I'm sorry, I-I couldn't help-"

"No," she whispered, "don't be sorry."

And she pulled him back into her, kissing him as passionately as he'd kissed her. He reached around her this time and lifted her by the thighs to place her on the table, while her hands grasped at his shoulders and neck, pressing her face into his. He slid one hand up her leg under her skirts and caressed her thigh, which drew gasps and shudders from her. Reaching around with his other arm, he placed it on the small of her back, pulling her into him. She smelled of wood fire and soap and lavender, and he breathed her scent deeply, revelling in it. He began kissing her long, pale neck, his hand sliding up her back and into her hair. The room was silent except for the sounds of lips on lips, and lips on skin and the heavy breathing of passion.

She reached around him and began to be frustrated with his armor, pulling at the straps. He withdrew from her kiss for a moment to hastily remove it. When the last of it clattered to the floor, he returned to where she sat on the table. Her hands supported her from behind as she leaned slightly backwards. Her skirt had been shoved mostly behind her, showing her slender legs parted where he'd been standing. Her auburn hair was tousled where his hands had roamed through it and her cheeks were aflame with passion.

"Gods, you're gorgeous, Sansa." He walked back to his place between her legs, and she wrapped them around his thighs. Both placed a hand on the other's cheek and their faces met again in a kiss. They were softer this time, tender and slow, and he sucked gently on her lower lip. His gentle kisses traveled to her cheeks and temples and neck, all the while letting his hands roam her back and thighs. Sansa breathed raggedly and let out a soft moan. "Oh Sandor," she whispered softly in his ear while he caressed her neck. Her words made his loins ache with desire. His hard cock pressed against her through their clothing, and another moan escaped her lips.

He pulled away then to look into her eyes. "Is this what you want, little bird?"

She knitted her brows in confusion and he continued. "You're a lady and-" he paused, pulling her hair back from her brow, "- and we're unmarried." His eyes searched her face.

She reached up and caressed his cheek, the hair on his face coarse against her soft hands. "Sandor, I was married twice, both times before the gods, and vows were said." She paused and looked into his eyes. "Both times it was shit." He blinked at her use of a curse word.

"I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or in a week, I don't know if there will be anyone left to care about my virtue. Right now, I'm the Queen in the North and I'm alive and those are two good reasons to get what I want for once in my life." She sat up straight and pulled her chest into his, looking up into his eyes. "And what I want is you."

She finished her sentence with his face in both of her hands. He kissed her again, softly, tenderly, tasting her sweet mouth and caressing her face with his thumbs. He pulled at the laces on her gown, all the while breathing in her scent and never removing his lips from her skin. She helped him pull the outer gown over her head, and his feverish passion for her grew stronger.

He began unlacing the underdress at the bosom when he felt Sansa tense. His eyes met hers and he saw behind her desire was a pang of fear. He slowly pulled the fabric down her shoulders to reveal her bare skin. Sansa bit her lip and looked away as the garment fell to her waist, revealing her round breasts and bare stomach, both speckled with the purple scars. She tried to cover herself, as tears welled again, the shame and humiliation burning in her face.

Sandor gently put a finger on her chin and turned her face to his. He pulled her hands from her nakedness, and let his eyes rove all over her, taking her in. "Sansa, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She clenched her eyes shut as the tears spilled down her cheeks. "He ruined me," her voice broke his heart.

Sandor placed his lips on a scar on her chest and kissed it softly. "You're perfect." He brushed the tears from her cheeks. "I see scars that show your strength." She opened her eyes again and looked at him, struck with the realization that he'd said the same thing to her which she'd said to him only minutes ago. She smiled then, the fear of rejection gone, and laughed softly, sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him into an embrace. "Listen to us," she said after a moment with her chin on his shoulder. She pulled back to face him, "Two hopelessly scarred people, inside and out." She looked into his eyes. "Just wanting to be loved."

She held her breath as his eyes roamed her face, taking in all of her. Finally he met her gaze, and stroked her soft cheek with his thumb. "Don't you know I've always loved you, little bird."

Her face contracted with emotion and he kissed her again, lifting her off the table. He carried her to the bed where he laid her gently on the pillows and pulled her under gown past her hips, revealing her womanhood and her long, slender legs. His eyes drank in her nakedness, and he felt the blood rushing to his cock. He ached with desire for her. He moved in between her legs, and supporting his weight on one elbow, he began caressing her body with his other hand. She sucked in her breath when his palm engulfed her breast and squeezed. His kisses made their way down her neck, onto her chest and then on the side of her breast. He moved to the nipple, placing his warm mouth over it entirely and flicking with his tongue.

Sansa gasped and arched beneath him. He sucked her breast while his hand slid down her stomach, and onto her thigh. He used his knees to pull her legs apart further, and his hand slid up to touch her sex. Sansa sucked in a ragged breath that ended with a small whine. He lifted his head from her breast, and rasped "Gods, you're so fucking wet for me." She nodded and he maintained her gaze as he slowly slipped a finger inside of her. Her mouth fell open and she moaned in pleasure, grasping his tunic and twisting. He added a second finger and she screamed softly while he plunged in and out and took her breast in his mouth again. "Oh gods, Sandor," Sansa whined, the pleasure overtaking her, and she arched and writhed under his touches.

He withdrew for a moment to hastily remove his tunic, revealing the hard muscle beneath. Sansa's eyes devoured his naked chest and she pressed her hands onto his muscled torso, caressing him feverishly. Her hands slid up to his shoulders and she pulled him down to her, meeting his mouth with her own.

After a moment, he pulled back again and rolled over to kick off his boots and then pull off his breeches and underclothing. When he turned back to her, Sansa saw his manhood and gaped. He grinned and kissed her as he settled between her legs. "Don't worry, I'll go slow."

She opened her legs further and kissed him again, feeling the warm, silky head of his cock pressing against her wet lips. She wanted him, needed him desperately, and her hips moved into his, begging. He kissed her neck and earlobe. "Are you sure?" He whispered against her ear.

She pulled him up and kissed him again passionately, her hands wrapped around his neck. She stopped and looked into his eyes, breathing heavily, her pupils dilated with pleasure, "Gods, yes, I want you inside me."

He moved his hips into hers and Sansa almost screamed when he entered her. The pleasure as he completely filled her was overwhelming and she clenched her hands onto his back. She was not a virgin, but she was the tightest he'd ever felt and he groaned with her. In and out he moved, slowly at first. Sansa whined and put her mouth on his shoulder, biting softly to stifle her sounds. Her breasts pressed into his chest, warm and smooth, driving his passion. Her arms were wrapped around his back, pulling him, always pulling as if she could never have him far enough inside her. His forehead met hers and he gazed steadfastly in her eyes as he fucked her, his breath mingled with hers, their lips brushing each other. The steady rhythm of his hips grinding into her was becoming unbearable for both and he knew Sansa was approaching her pleasure. Suddenly her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back as she gasped "Oh! Oh gods! Sandor-!" She screamed softly as she came, her body clenching in spasms around his cock, and Sandor could no longer contain himself. He grasped her breast and buried his head in her neck as he finished with her, groaning and thrusting. His cock pulsed with his seed, spilling deep inside her.

Their movement slowed and Sandor put his forehead against hers again as their chests heaved and their skin glistened from exertion. Sansa reached up and touched his face, still breathing heavily. "I just realized, I didn't say it back to you."

He looked at her questioningly. "What didn't you say?"

"That I love you, Sandor."

She spoke softly, with him still inside of her, filling her completely and healing her. "I'm going to marry you."


	7. Chapter 7

**I know that this SanSan relationship has progressed a little faster than I'd originally wanted it to, but once I'd already dived into the timeline, I realized that there was no way to really put off the progression of the army of the dead. I mean, those guys were walking slowly, but still. ;) At least they were acquainted for a considerable amount of time in King's Landing, even if Sansa was still little more than a child at that time. It gives a bit more depth to their relationship. As always, thank you for following, and for the reviews!**

Chapter 7

Sandor had been lying awake since first light, watching her for nearly an hour, still unable to believe that she'd been his. She lay on her side facing him, with her long auburn hair partially covering her naked shoulders. The bedclothes stopped just above her nipples, so that the tops of her breasts, rising and falling with her even breathing, were revealed to him. He felt the familiar ache in his chest just looking at her. _"I love you, Sandor."_ He remembered how those words had shot straight into his heart, turning him into putty. _How did this happen to me? How could I be so lucky?_

Sansa stirred and rolled onto her back, stretching her arms and opening her eyes slowly. She blinked and turned to him. A huge smile spread across her face and she closed her eyes again sleepily, reaching to place her hand on his chest. The warmth of her smile sent electricity through his body, and he drew her into him. She nestled her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her slender body.

"Good morning, little bird. I don't think there's ever been a better morning." She could hear the smile in his familiar, rasping voice and she loved that he was happy.

"It is a good morning," she mumbled softly, opening her eyes again and looking up at him. Her hand went up to his cheek. "Who cares about those dead fuckers." She chuckled at her own language and Sandor's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Who cares? I sure as hell care." He stroked her hair back from her face. "I know what it means to be happy, probably for the first time in my life. I'll be damned if I let one of those dead cunts take you from me."

Sansa rose up onto one elbow and pulled his face into hers. She kissed him softly and his hand went behind her head to feel her thick, silky hair. She withdrew from his kiss and looked into his eyes. "I meant what I said last night. I'm going to marry you." She looked down then, and blushed. "I-I mean if you want to marry me."

"Sansa, I…" he paused and searched her face, then swallowed hard and continued, "I'm nobody, and you're a Stark of Winterfell. I can't let you lower yourself for the likes of me." He stroked her cheek sadly. "You're expected to marry a lord."

She scoffed and sat up straight. "A lord like Ramsay, perhaps? Or maybe his father before him?" The fire was in her voice now, to match her hair. "Or maybe even a prince like Joffrey, should I be so lucky?" Sansa the lady of Winterfell was back— albeit, sitting on a bed with bare breasts—and she was determined. "I'm done having other people decide my fate for me, telling me who I should and shouldn't marry, holding me captive as the future bride of their little shit sons." She leaned down across his chest and forced his head back into the pillow. Her forehead pressed against his and her hand slipped behind his neck. "I AM the Lady of Winterfell, you're right." She kissed his lips. "And AS the Lady of Winterfell, I will choose my own husband." Her eyes shifted from his lips, to his scars, to his entire face, before coming back to gaze into his. "I choose you, Sandor."

He grabbed her face and kissed her passionately, moving his hands down her naked body. He grasped her under her bottom, squeezing it hard as he lifted her onto him. She gasped and laughed softly, and began planting kisses on his bare chest. Sansa moved down his torso, until she was sitting on his thighs, his hard cock lay against his stomach, huge and veined. She looked up at him and colored, suddenly shy, but she was determined to be the strong and willful lady Sansa, not the timid girl. She took it in one hand, gingerly, and began to stroke it.

Sandor closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow. "Fuck, that feels good." She lifted herself up on one leg and positioned him against her, guiding him inside her. She was wet and ready, and they moaned their pleasure simultaneously as she slid down his length until she was sitting against his hips, his cock buried deep inside her.

She had no idea what was expected of a lady in the bedroom, but she was led by her instincts, doing what felt good, and it felt good to take him inside her. She rocked her hips slowly, allowing herself to adjust to his size, feeling him pressing against the back of her. Her hands rested on his hard torso and she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back as she rocked back and forth. Soft sounds of pleasure escaped from her throat.

He sat up suddenly and pulled her face down to his, kissing her passionately. His beard felt rough against her soft skin, but the sensation was a welcome one. He felt like a man, he smelled like a man, and her femininity responded to him. His tongue moved inside her mouth and she followed his lead, tasting him, needing him. She continued to ride him in smooth motions, burying her fingers in his hair and the flesh on his back. His arms enveloped her completely, aiding in her movements, pulling her up and down on him.

His mouth moved down to her breast and Sansa threw her head back with closed eyes, moaning softly. He moved slowly up to her neck, and began to suck on her earlobe while she slid her hips back and forth against him. He leaned back enough to place his thumb on her pleasure spot and Sansa sucked in air loudly, her mouth hanging open. He moved his thumb in small circles and Sansa's eyes squeezed shut, a squeal of pleasure escaping her lips.

She grinded her hips against him faster, feeling the pleasure building inside of her like a wave threatening to crash out of every pore in her body. "Oh, gods!" Sansa bit her lip hard and pulled his shoulders to her, pressing his body against her completely. Watching her writhe in pleasure was driving him wild. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders completely, the other supporting him on the bed as he pressed her down onto him. He clenched his teeth and looked into her eyes as he climaxed, a deep groan coming up from his throat as his cock released itself in spasms.

Sansa felt him swell inside of her and it pushed her over the edge. Her forehead touched his and her eyes clenched shut again as the pleasure rolled over her, spreading from her fingers to her toes and she screamed quietly between clenched teeth. Her eyes flew open and gazed with fierce intensity into his as she finished her orgasm, her breathing ragged.

Sandor brushed the hair back from her face, kissing her softly as she moved her hips into him more and more slowly, feeling the last of her pleasure. He didn't think there was any feeling in the world better than being inside of her, holding her in his arms.

"If this is truly what you want, little bird, I'd be a fool to say no." His eyes roamed her face. "You're all I've wanted for a long time, even before I admitted it to myself." She smiled and blushed, but held his gaze. "Still, when has life ever given me what I wanted? It feels too good to be true."

Sansa climbed off of him and pulled the bedclothes up over her nakedness, before turning back to him. "Don't be silly, life doesn't give us what we want." He searched her eyes questioningly, and she lifted his hand and kissed his fingertips. "We take what we want and tell life to go fuck itself."

Sandor grinned and kissed her pretty mouth. "Looks like you've learned something, little bird."

"So, will you marry me then?" She chuckled despite herself at how backwards their situation was, she asking him for marriage. If the girl who'd left Winterfell for King's Landing years ago could see her now, oh how she'd scoff.

"Aye, I'll marry you." He kissed her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The news of the impending threat had to be shared, and Sansa with Bran and Arya called all the lords and officers to the great hall. There, Bran shared what he'd seen, and an uproar of fear and disbelief spread through the long room. It took the better part of an hour to bring the meeting to a satisfying conclusion. The armies would be readied immediately, and a raven dispatched to Lord Manderly's household in White Harbor to bring the news to Jon as soon as they disembarked from their ships. Ravens would also be sent to all the major houses in the North, and to the remaining two castles on the wall with the news of the breach, and to call all the fighting men of the North to Winterfell to prepare for the great battle.

In the letter to Jon, Sansa would urge him to ask the dragon queen to fly the dragons to Winterfell immediately, ahead of her armies. Two dragons could make all the difference if the dead reached them before the army was reinforced.

With plans in place, there was little to do but fulfill them and wait. Judging by the timing of Jon's letter with the news of Cersei's acceptance, and the average time it took to sail from King's Landing to White Harbor, Sansa hoped that Jon and Daenerys could arrive within several days. _Depending on how long it takes for the dragons to fly here from White Harbor._ Sansa laughed despite herself. _Gods, if we all could have seen a year ago where we'd be now. I'm calculating the flight time of a dragon._

She finished the letters for Jon-she'd written two copies in the event that one went astray-and placed her seal on them. Then she rose and sought out the maester. She knew he would be with the ravens, seeing to the other letters immediately. When she reached him, she handed him the letters and waited to see the ravens fly. Then she ensured he had all he needed to inform the North of their plans, and left the rookery.

She set her mind then to her personal agenda, which was to take her planned betrothal to her brother and sister for their blessing. Despite her prior marriages being a farce, she was still determined to be married. It was important to her to honor the memories of her mother and father, and she would pledge her love before the old gods. She never would have dreamed it would happen like this, so quickly, so unplanned, but with the dead marching, there was no time. She would not leave this life without being with Sandor, but she could not feel right in being with him without marriage. _Besides, why should I wait for someone else to decide who I'm sold to, without knowing anything about the man?_ Marrying for love might not be practical or possible in normal times, but the world was upside down right now and she was going to take what she wanted.

Sansa flushed with embarrassment at what her siblings might think of her impropriety, but pushed the thought away. She was the ruler of the North, and she would not deny herself the means to be happy just because she was a woman. She'd sent Sandor away to another task that morning, leaving her free to speak in private. She decided to start first with Arya, and summoned her to her solar.

Arya arrived within minutes, sauntered into the room and looked about her. "The last time you summoned me before you, we got to kill Littlefinger. I hope this meeting ends as pleasantly?" She raised her eyebrow and smirked at Sansa.

Sansa gave her a tired smile. "Arya…" she faltered, not sure how to begin. "Arya, I know we're not as…close as some sisters, but I do trust you." Arya smiled and inclined her head at Sansa. Sansa inhaled deeply then puffed out her cheeks in the exhale, trying to figure out how to say what she needed to say. She stood, and walked around to where Arya stood near the hearth.

She decided to get straight to the point, before her courage failed her. "What would you think of me if I told you I was considering marriage?" Sansa looked down at her hands.

Arya snorted. "I'd say I hope you've learned to pick 'em better. Your track record is awful." She looked at her sister amused, and Sansa rolled her eyes, but returned the smile.

"Fine, that's fair, although this time it's my choice. No, he's—he's not at all like the others."

"Sansa, no one will care if you marry Sandor."

Sansa gasped at her. "What? How—?" She blushed deeply and wrung her hands.

Arya chuckled at her. "How did I know? Please. First of all I spent months with him, and he always called you my 'pretty sister.'" Arya made a face when she said it. "Second, I was trained to read people, and a child could see that he's completely in love with you." Arya looked up at Sansa's shocked face, thoroughly enjoying herself. She began to pace a bit, reveling in the drama. "Finally, you're not the best at hiding your feelings either. Oh, I know you are the lady of Winterfell to all of those lords out there, but ever since he came here you've taken to blushing and smirking." Sansa's mouth was hanging open. "Now with the dead coming, time is short, blah blah, you want to take it while you can. Really, I fairly predicted it." Arya finished her speech with a little pivot and stopped to face Sansa again, her hands behind her back, looking very impish.

Sansa was speechless. She opened her mouth, colored, closed it, opened it again, made a little sound of surprise, and then gave up trying. She covered her face with her hands and chuckled in embarrassment, collapsing on a chair. "Oh gods, I feel like such an idiot."

Arya smiled down at her, "No, you were an idiot when you were in love with Joffrey. The Hound is—" she paused and thought about how to say what she wanted to say. "I don't know, he's just—good. I'm happy for you." She put her hands on Sansa's shoulders, and Sansa looked up at her. "Marry him, Sansa, really. I'm actually very proud of you."

Sansa stood then and smiled down at her little sister. "Thank you, Arya," and she kissed her cheek.

As Sansa walked out of the room, Arya did not turn, but called over her shoulder "Don't think this means I'm not going to give you both absolute heck about it!" Arya's grin was bigger than it had any right to be, and she chuckled to herself.


	8. Chapter 8

**When I started this story, I didn't really intend to try to write an ending to the Song of Ice and Fire saga that would be worthy of the story, but I'm kind of forced into it now, so I'll do my best. This is still primarily a love story between Sandor and Sansa though, so they'll remain the main focus. As always, thank you so much for follows, favorites and reviews. Even short reviews give me a lot of motivation to keep writing!**

Chapter 8

It was two days after the word had been given to the castle about the breach of the wall, and everywhere was abuzz with activity. Servants prepped barracks for the men, the kitchens were swamped with preparation for the hordes of mouths to feed, and the hunting parties were twice as large as usual. Hammers rang in the forge at all hours of day and night, and now Sansa had just ensured that the blacksmith would have the extra men he'd requested of her. He nodded his thanks, and she took her leave, after insisting that he take some rest for himself.

Sandor shadowed her, as usual, and she met him as she stepped out of the darkness of the forge. He smiled down at her, and she returned it. Their secret was still only known to Arya, as Sansa had decided to wait until Jon's arrival to discuss with him, and get the whole business done in one shot. If anyone else had noticed how their interactions had changed, they had not shared their suspicions.

Sansa strode purposefully across the snow covered courtyard toward her solar where she was to meet with the steward, Sandor following close behind. Out of nowhere, an earsplitting shriek shattered the relative silence in the air. Sansa gasped and fell to one knee instinctively, ducking her head. Out of the side of her vision she saw men doing the same, shouts of alarm arising from all corners of the castle. Another shriek followed almost immediately and Sansa screamed, looking back at Sandor with wide, white eyes.

He had crouched as well, but now he grabbed Sansa around the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "I've heard that sound only once before," he growled. "Dragon," and he forced her to a run, his arm around her shoulders, out of the open courtyard toward the shelter of the barracks.

They barreled into the stone wall and turned around quickly, their backs pressed against it. "Sandor, is it him? Is it the Night King?!" Her eyes were huge, the fear plain on her face, but she kept her head and he could see she was working through a plan of escape. Another shriek shattered the air, closer this time than before, sounding just outside the castle gates. Then the earth shook.

Sansa screamed and crouched again, touching the bare snow with her fingers, not feeling the cold. Sandor looked up at the battlements where men had fallen to the stone, and covered their heads, but there were a brave few who dared to look beyond at the terror that approached. "What the bloody fuck is out there?!" Sandor bellowed.

A silence fell over the castle that felt like ages, but in actuality was not more than a moment or two. Finally, a man on the battlements turned to the inside walls and shouted, "It's the Dragon Queen! And his grace, the King in the North!"

Sansa closed her eyes and set her mouth into a thin line. She clenched her teeth and stood, brushing the snow from her hands and dress. "Ugh!" the sound of frustration was impossible for her to contain and she glanced at Sandor who looked down at her angry little face and laughed. "Little bird, it's a relief, isn't it?" She was not amused, and he laughed again.

"It would be a relief," she said through her teeth, "if I didn't have to be frightened half to death in my own castle to begin with." Her chin shot up and she marched toward the gates, which had already begun to open. She let out her breath in a controlled stream, willing herself to forget the fear of moments before, and greet the Dragon Queen in a manner that would not bring shame to her house.

When the gates had opened enough to allow her to see beyond them, she gasped and stared. Two dragons, larger than she'd ever imagined them to be, crouched upon the hillside. Their faces were terrible, huge and frightening with teeth the size of swords. Their leathery wings supported the upper part of their bodies, and they seemed to crawl on the ends of them, like otherworldly reptilians. One of them looked toward her and shrieked again, it's head stretching forth like a snake as it's mouth stretched wide enough to swallow an aurochs. Sansa was awestruck. She had to force her attention from them to her brother who strode toward her now, leading a smaller woman behind him.

When she could see the woman, Sansa was struck with her beauty. The men had not lied. Her hair was white-gold, and braided intricately, leaving much of it loose down her back. She wore a white battle cloak and dress, appropriate for the North, and her eyes were large and round and solemn with expressive brows framing them. When she looked at Sansa she gave her a courteous, regal smile. It was not the kind of smile that queen Cersei would have given, sickeningly sweet without reaching the eyes, the eyes that always betrayed her venom. It was a genuine smile and Sansa felt that this woman was pleased to meet her.

Jon drew her attention by smiling at her and saying "Hello, Sansa." She smiled back at him, and moved into his embrace. "We came as soon as we could," he gestured to the dragons. She gave him a look that revealed her thoughts and he laughed. "I'm sorry if we frightened you."

He turned back toward Daenerys and introduced her. "Sansa, this is Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." He paused and smiled at Daenerys, "She has a lot of other titles, but I haven't quite gotten them down yet."

The dragon queen smiled at Jon, and it was _that_ kind of smile. It only lasted a second, but Sansa had seen what passed between them. Jon continued, "Your grace, this is my sister, Sansa Stark."

Daenerys stepped toward Sansa and Sansa looked to Jon briefly, before going down on one knee. "Your grace, my brother has pledged himself and the North to you, and I trust his judgement. I am yours." There was silence for a moment, and then Dany bent down and took Sansa's hands in hers, pulling her to her feet.

"Lady Sansa, I am very happy to finally meet you. I have heard much of your strength and invaluable counsel. You have been a steady leader while Jon was away and you have my thanks as well as his."

Sansa smiled at her praise and could not help but feel that she already liked this woman. It was like she had felt with Margaery Tyrell. Admiration, but not jealousy, fondness without the catlike claws that women often revealed to one another. She remembered her courtesies, "You both must be exhausted from your journey. Thank you for coming so quickly. Please, come in and get warm, we'll have food prepared immediately." She summoned a servant to bring word to the steward to prepare for their royal guest and the return of their liege lord.

Sandor had watched everything in silence, standing well behind Sansa, but close enough to observe the greeting and hear the exchange. Now Jon approached him. "Clegane." He was surprised, and looked from Sandor to Sansa and back again. "I did not expect to see you here."

Sandor met his gaze, "Aye, I did not expect to be here. Until you left the wall and there was no choice, but to stay there and freeze or come to Winterfell and put my skills to good use in her service." He nodded toward Sansa. "I offered her my protection, once I'd learned she was here alone with Lord Baelish. Figured she needed it. She took care of him without my help, though."

Jon looked to Sansa in surprise. "Lord Baelish was executed on my command for murder and treason. We have much to acquaint you with, Jon." Jon nodded and looked grave, but Sansa knew his thoughts were on the coming threat and not dwelling on the loss of Littlefinger. He'd had no love for the man. He turned and started toward the hall.

"Jon!" he whirled at the voice, and after scanning the courtyard for a moment, he saw her. Arya's face was expressionless for a long moment, before finally contracting with emotion. She ran to him, and for a moment she was no longer an assassin, a student of the Faceless Men, she was just his little sister.

"Arya," he breathed, and he closed the gap. She flung herself onto him, the tears pouring down her cheeks as she buried her head in his neck. He held her tight and kissed her head, and those who saw the reunion were overcome with the emotion of it. Sansa felt the tears in her own eyes and smiled. For all that each of them had endured in their young lives, it felt so good to have a moment of happiness, and that could never be taken from them.

Jon pulled back and looked at her, brushing the tears from her cheeks with his gloved thumbs, smiling. "Little sister," he said, and mussed her hair, just as he always used to do. Arya laughed through her tears and stood up straight. Jon noticed her blade and looked back at her in amazement. "You still have it!"

Arya nodded and drew Needle for him to see. "Do you still remember how to use it?" he quipped, and looked at her, waiting.

"Aye," she said, and then they finished the sentence together, just like old times. "Stick 'em with the pointy end!"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jon's reunion with Bran was similar to what Bran's reunion with the girls had been—solemn and fairly emotionless. His reunion with Sam was much more interesting, and the former brothers in black embraced each other with feeling, genuinely happy to be in one another's company again. They all chatted and acquainted one another with news over a hearty meal, and Daenerys was settled in the same royal apartments that had been given to King Robert when he had journeyed to Winterfell so long ago.

After supper, all the Stark children were gathered in Sansa's solar, happy and home again, if only temporarily. Sam, Gilly, and Daenerys had joined as well, and their party was a pleasant one, with laughs, stories, and memories. Sam shared his experiences at Oldtown, and Bran his journey beyond the wall. Arya acquainted him with her time in Braavos and as Sandor's hostage in Westeros, and Jon told them all of Dragonstone and the meeting in King's Landing. Daenerys joined in the conversation as well, though she felt somewhat an outsider, telling them stories of Qarth, Meereen, and the Dothraki. Even Sandor joined in the conversation, responding to Arya's quips about him, and filling in parts of the journey beyond the wall.

No one wanted the evening to end. With the threat of death marching toward them, these pleasant moments were more precious than they had ever been before, and each person savored the time together, unsure of whether they'd ever have another opportunity like it.

As the hour grew late, Bran looked knowingly at Sam, but Sam shook his head almost imperceptibly. His eyes pleaded with Bran to not spoil the evening. Let Jon have one last night as a Stark, one last night of undisturbed happiness. Bran seemed to acquiesce, and announced that he was ready to turn in for the night. The others rose and agreed with him; it had been a long day.

Arya took Bran's chair and began to wheel him out, but he stopped in front of Sansa, and held onto her arm. He looked into her eyes and nodded, smiled faintly, then returned his face to its normal expressionless state.

Sansa colored as she wondered how he knew, hoping desperately he'd not used his abilities to spy on her in her room. The thought almost made her gag, but she felt certain that Bran would not have done something so intrusive. Then she remembered Arya, and looked up at her. She grinned and made a face that seemed to say "Sorry, I couldn't help it!" Sansa rolled her eyes, but was not angry, and let them leave the room.

Jon was looking at Dany and moved to leave with her, but before he could do so, Sansa put her hand on his arm and said, "Jon, will you stay for a moment? I was hoping to speak with you in private." Jon looked back at Dany who smiled and bid them both good night, before stepping out of the room. Sansa glanced at Sandor who gave her a knowing look, and stepped outside with the rest of them.

Jon gave Sansa a tired smile and sat back down in his chair. She remained standing, looking down at him, and then turned away to pace the room. "I—I'm sure you must be tired, and I'm sorry to keep you," she began, "but there's something I need to speak with you about. With the threat that faces us now, there just seems to be no more _time_." She spoke the last sentence with exasperation, and Jon saw the fear etched in her features.

He stood and walked to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I know you're frightened Sansa. We're all frightened, to be honest. But I truly believe we can win this war. Daenerys' dragons will be a huge asset." He chuckled. "Literally."

Sansa looked across at him and smiled weakly. "I hope you're right, Jon." She looked down at her hands.

"That's not what you wanted to speak to me about though, is it?" He waited.

Sansa's eyes met his, then she sighed and looked to the fire. She straightened, drew in a breath and steeled her resolve. "Jon, you know I haven't had the best experience with marriage. I was sold twice to two different men, one a farce, and the other…" she trailed off and looked in his eyes. "Well you know what the other was." She continued, "Still, I'm a woman now, and…well I—I want to be happy too," she finished lamely.

Jon let out a small chuckle. "I can relate to that, Sansa. Well, not the bit about being a woman." He grinned, but she could hardly share in his humor. He grew serious then, "I know how you feel. Honestly." And when he looked in her eyes, she knew that he did. She'd have to ask him about that soon, but the time for that would come. "Was there someone you have in mind, Sansa?" He continued, "Has one of our lords bannerman stolen your heart while I was gone?" He smiled impishly, as brothers are wont to do.

Sansa blushed deeply and closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to go on, embarrassed to her core. "Not—not exactly." She realized she was holding her breath, and let it out in a puff. "Promise you won't laugh at me, Jon?" He laughed. "No, really!" she hit his arm, trying to suppress an embarrassed smile. "Please, you can't laugh."

"All right!" he tried to hide his grin. "I won't laugh." He put a hand to her cheek and grew serious again. "Sansa, after all you've been through, do you really think I don't want your happiness? If a man has made you happy, and he's lucky enough to earn your affection, then I'm happy." He smiled tenderly at her, and his words gave her courage.

She nodded. "All right." Deep breath. "It's Sandor."

She could have told him it was the ghost of Renly Baratheon and he'd have been less shocked. "Clegane?! Sandor Clegane? The Hound!" She shushed him loudly.

"Jon please, I'm serious." She looked pained.

His shock was still plain on his face, but he calmed down. "You're telling me you're in love with Sandor Clegane? Or is it just…" He searched her face. "No, what else would it be? He has no lands or titles to tempt anyone, and certainly not looks." She looked at him reproachfully. "You love him?"

Sansa met his gaze then and he knew. "Yes, Jon, I—I do love him. I don't know how exactly, or when." She looked down at her hands, pulling at them. "He was always kind to me in King's Landing, but it was different then. I—I was still little more than a child." She stood up straight. "When he came here it was different. I realized there had been something there all along, something I felt for him. And—and now I know that I love him." She still wrung her hands, but she looked at him, her eyes pleading.

Jon softened. He truly wanted Sansa to be happy. But could the Hound be gentle, be kind to his sister? She had already endured so much. "And the Hound—Sandor—does he feel the same about you? He loves you?" Sansa blushed, and nodded, growing ever more uncomfortable. "Yes, I suppose he does, come to think of it. I don't know why I didn't see it before." Jon chuckled at himself, "Gods, you should have seen his face when I told him of Ramsay, he was murderous."

Sansa blushed again, but this time she smiled. Jon took her hands in his. "Sansa, are you certain he's not going to…" he broke off, unsure of how to choose his words, "not going to hurt you? He's such an angry man."

Sansa smiled and then laughed a little. "Yes, I suppose he is," she looked into the fire, and then back into his eyes. "But, Jon, for all his grisly exterior, his heart is gentle. He would never hurt me."

Jon studied her face and then was convinced. "Sansa, if you love him, and he loves you, then marry him. Titles will mean little in this new world, there may be few left to care." He frowned at his own gravity, but continued. "If you're asking my consent, I am giving it. With my whole heart." He kissed her on the cheek, and smiled at her.

Sansa's relief flooded her face and Jon thought he'd never seen her so happy, not since they were children. "Thank you, Jon!" she breathed and kissed his cheek excitedly. "Thank you, thank you!" She turned to leave the room, to share the news with her love. Then she stopped and looked back. "Tomorrow," she said, decidedly.

He raised his eyebrows, but she was certain, so he nodded. "Tomorrow," he answered.


	9. Chapter 9

**The wedding words are taken from the TV show for a wedding before the old gods, and also from articles that I read, but I have added a little of the wedding words from a Faith of the Seven wedding because, well it was sorta lame how it was :P**

 **I love your reviews, they help me write :D**

Chapter 9

 _There has not been a wedding in Winterfell since my wedding in Winterfell._ Sansa shook her head, and smiled in spite of herself. _Oh, Sansa, did you ever think your life would be so upside-down from normal? When it was just you and Jeyne Poole, little girls in love with the idea of romance. How everything has changed._ The romance certainly was there, in its own real-world way, but Sansa grew sad at the thought of her childhood friend. How many people that she had cared for had been lost to her in these last few years? But today was not a day for sadness. Today, she would belong to him, the man who had taken her heart so unexpectedly. It was too much happiness, and she placed a hand on her stomach, willing it to stop trying to fly away.

The maidservant, Dalla, arranged Sansa's hair delicately, with much left down in the style of the North, but with a more elegant arrangement of braids than was usual for her. Her gown was white wool, embroidered with gold. Not exactly a wedding gown, but the best she could do from her current wardrobe, without having any prior time to plan. The gown she'd worn at her marriage to Ramsay had been wholeheartedly burned after his death.

Certainly, the castle had been told of the marriage, but Sansa had not been there to witness it. She had begged Jon to be the one to share the news, too much afraid to trust herself with the task. She did not care anyway what others thought now, the ones who mattered had given her their hearty consent, and the rest would accept in time.

Dalla weaved small, blue winter roses in Sansa's braids. The rare flower had been a favorite of her aunt Lyanna, and Sansa wore them today to honor her Stark heritage. When the last flower was placed, Sansa's toilette was complete. She inspected the final design, turning her head to one side and the other, then nodded approval to Dalla, and dismissed her. It was almost dusk and the time was drawing near.

Moments after the maid had left the room, a soft knock sounded at her door. "Enter," Sansa said, assuming Dalla had forgotten something.

"Sansa?" Daenerys' voice made Sansa whirl, catching her entirely by surprise. She stood in the doorway and smiled at Sansa's appearance.

"Your grace! Forgive me, I did not expect you." Sansa did a nervous curtsy, and bid her guest enter.

Dany laughed gently, "No, there is nothing to forgive. Today is for you." She tilted her head and took Sansa's hands in hers. "You look absolutely beautiful."

Sansa blushed prettily and looked down at her dress, "Do you think so? I'm afraid it's not quite as dramatic as a wedding gown should be." She smoothed the fabric of the bodice.

"It's perfect, but I meant _you_ look beautiful, not just your dress," Dany reached out to Sansa and took a lock of the auburn hair which flowed over her chest, smoothing it in her hands and running her fingers down the length of it. "Your hair. I've never seen hair so lovely." Her praise was genuine.

" _My_ hair!" Sansa laughed. "Your grace, have you seen your own? I believe men would kill to be with a woman like you."

Dany raised an eyebrow knowingly. "Generally, men are fools like that, aren't they?" She sat upon Sansa's bed and laughed softly. Sansa followed her lead, seating herself next to the queen. "Sansa, I wanted to tell you that I admire you and what you have chosen to do, taking your fate in matrimony into your own hands. I know your betrothed would not be every lady's choice of husband. You must really love him." The last sentence was almost a question.

Sansa looked down at her hands and blushed. "Yes, your grace, I do love him. He is my protector, and has always been kind and gentle to me. We—"she paused and looked at Dany, wondering how much she knew. "We have both been through some very...difficult experiences. I believe we understand one another."

Dany took one of Sansa's hands in hers and squeezed gently. "What you have been through is more than I can even imagine, and I have experienced my own share of heartache and terror." She looked sad, but strong. "You are a true lady. I would be proud to have you as my own sister."

Sansa looked up, surprised at the praise, but also because there was a strange hint in Dany's choice of words. She brushed it off, and thanked the queen, insisting she was being far too generous.

Daenerys straightened and pulled a small item from a fold in her dress, an almost shy smile on her face. "I wanted to give you a wedding gift. It's small, I will bring you something much better when my people arrive, but the back of a dragon is not the best place for cargo. We only brought very little with us." Dany smiled and held out the folded paper to Sansa.

"Oh, your grace! I…you really shouldn't…" Sansa was touched by her kindness. Inside the folds of tissue was an incredibly tiny gold chain, so delicate she feared it would break. A beautiful pendant hung from it in the shape of a teardrop. It was small, but lovely; sapphires surrounding a large moonstone set in gold. Sansa looked up, "It's beautiful, thank you." She reached out suddenly and wrapped her arms around Daenerys in an embrace. Dany smiled and returned the hug.

"Here, let me help you." Dany took the necklace from Sansa's hand and clasped it around her pale neck, as Sansa held her hair out of the way. When she finished, it hung just inside the hollow of Sansa's throat, perfectly accentuating her long, slender neck. She turned back to Daenerys and thanked her again.

Dany took Sansa's hands in hers once more and said, "I hope you are as happy with your husband as I was with mine. And I will do everything in my power to ensure that we win this war so that you can have many years to come with him." Dany embraced her again, squeezed her hands, and walked from the room.

Sansa turned to the looking glass and admired her appearance, fingering the new jewel at her throat. She smiled and closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, she was ready. She headed to the godswood.

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Snow was falling as she stepped out into the frigid night air. The moonlight sparkled on the white blanket covering the ground, giving the illusion of millions of diamonds under her feet. Jon was waiting for her, and he smiled proudly, offering his arm to her. "You look beautiful, Sansa," he whispered to her, and she blushed prettily.

As they walked toward the heart tree, Sansa saw the guests lining either sides of the torchlit path. They were all familiar faces, people she loved and trusted. Seeing them here, accommodating her desire for a wedding, despite the almost ridiculous circumstances, made her love them all the more. They all faced the possibility of a fate worse than any normal death, and it could come at any moment, yet here they stood with smiles on their faces, wishing her all the happiness in the world.

Sandor stood by the heart tree, his beard and hair trimmed neatly, his clothing and armor clean and polished, and he looked more handsome than she'd ever seen him. Her heart gave a queer pang in her chest and she blushed when she saw him looking at her with a huge swell of pride.

Sandor was trying and failing to convince himself that this was not just a dream. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms was approaching him, _him!_ Sandor Clegane. In the godswood. To be married! How could it be true? And yet it was; and there she was, looking like a goddess. She was perfect and she was his. If he died that night, it would be as the happiest man in the world. She looked up at him shyly as she approached, smiling timidly, and he returned the smile.

Bran was seated in his wheeled chair before the heart tree. He called out in a clear voice, "Who comes before the old gods this night?"

Jon responded, "Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods." Jon looked sideways at Sansa and smiled at her. He continued, "Who comes to claim her?"

"Sandor of House Clegane." His rasping voice sent a thrill through Sansa's body. "Who gives her?"

"Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, former King in the North, and Lord of Winterfell."

Bran glanced briefly at Samwell Tarly before continuing. "Lady Sansa, will you take this man?"

Sansa stepped forward until she was facing her betrothed. She took his hands, looked up into his eyes and said, "I take this man."

Sandor felt that his heart might stop. Bran continued, "Sandor Clegane, will you take this lady?"

He looked into her perfect blue eyes and rasped, "I take this lady."

They recited together in unison, their voices blending as one, "I am hers _I am his,_ and she is mine _and he is mine,_ from this day, until the end of my days." Sandor took her face gently in his hands, "With this kiss, I pledge my love." The kiss _was_ pure love, as tender as a kiss can be, and they were husband and wife.

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The wedding feast was a merry one, even if wasn't as extravagant as wedding feasts often are. The guests laughed and toasted, danced and sang and Sansa thought that she might burst with happiness. The Sandor Clegane that everyone beheld that night was a stranger to them. His walls had come down so drastically that he was hardly the same man. He laughed and smiled, kissing his bride often, and staring at her oftener. If any man had had any doubt of his feelings for her, and hers for him, their minds were forever settled on the matter after seeing them together at supper.

It was nearing the end of the feast, the wine and ale had been flowing for hours, and and both Sansa and her husband were feeling _very_ happy. A raucous shout erupted from the crowd, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. "A wedding needs a bedding!" Sansa paled. The sentiment was echoed repeatedly and in an instant the hall filled with shouts of "Bed her! Bed her!" Sansa looked at her husband with a nervous smile, trying to be calm. It was, after all, somewhat of a tradition in the North. Sandor put both hands on the table, stood up and bellowed. "I dare any one of you cunts to lay a hand on my wife!" He took a gulp of ale, "I'd hate to kill a man on my wedding night!"

Jon was the first to laugh, then Arya, and soon the whole hall. Sansa's hand was over her mouth as she laughed, and she playfully smacked her husband. Sandor grinned down at her and someone started up the first verse of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_. Within moments the entire hall was bellowing it at the tops of their lungs, raising their glasses to the bear and his bride. Sandor chugged the rest of the mug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and hoisted his 'maiden fair' into his arms. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and the hall erupted in cheers as Sandor Clegane carried his bride from the hall.

By the time they reached Sansa's room, they were laughing so heartily, he almost dropped her on the bed, and she squealed, throwing her arm out to catch herself. They collapsed unceremoniously onto the bed, giggling at each other, both having had more than just a little to drink. They were happier than anyone with a dead army marching toward them had any right to be. After a few moments, their laughter faded and Sansa sighed contentedly. Sandor brushed her hair away from her temple as he stroked her cheek gently. His eyes roamed her face, and she smiled at him.

"Little bird, have I told you how happy you have made me?" He lifted her hand and kissed it, "How did I get this lucky? I have the most beautiful wife in the world." His smile was huge and it broke her heart to see him so happy after living a life filled with so much sorrow.

"You are not any happier than I am myself," she said, propping up on her elbows.

"I am!"

"Are not!" she giggled.

"I am, woman, and I'll fight you for it!" he climbed onto her, grabbing her hips. Sansa screamed and laughed, writhing under him as he buried his head in her neck, softly gnawing her shoulder. He rolled lazily onto his back, pulling her on top of him. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks red, and her eyes were full of laughter.

He kicked off his boots and relaxed against the pillows pulling his bride onto his chest. After kissing her head with an exaggeratedly loud _smack_ , he gazed up at the ceiling. "Never thought I'd be a married man," he sighed contentedly.

Sansa looked up at him, "I'm glad I could convince you. Thank you for so generously accommodating my needs, ser." She did a mock bow with her head, laughing softly at him.

He chuckled with her, "I'm no knight, remember?" One arm was behind his head supporting him, the other rested on top of her hand on his chest.

She lifted her head as she went up on one elbow. She was serious now, "Sandor, I'd rather have you than a thousand, thousand knights." She stroked his face tenderly, "You're mine, and I love you."

He rolled her onto her back until he was hovering over her, and took her face in his hand, "And I love you, little bird." He kissed her, not for the first time that night, and certainly not the last.


	10. Chapter 10

**So, I guess I'm pretty engrossed in this story because I could not stop shaking while writing this chapter during the "big reveal." Lol. Also we're straying a little from the strictly San/San perspectives because these are some important scenes to us GOT nerds, and I had to write about them, but couldn't have San/San always peeking around a corner X-D Also, shit, I just wanted to write some SanSan scenes and now I gotta write an ending to this whole friggin' story :P**

 **I love the reviews, even short ones, they give me motivation! :D**

Chapter 10

The following morning, after breaking their fast, Bran requested to meet with all of his siblings in Sansa's solar, the room which had of course been their parents' solar at one time. Sansa and Sandor were well aware that there would be plenty of time to act like newlyweds once the war was over, so both had returned to their regular duties immediately. Sandor's new station would not require him to serve in his former capacity, but he still insisted on protecting Sansa actively, so he remained in armor and stayed with her most of the time. This was just as well, as being a soldier was all that Sandor had ever known, and it was comfortable for him.

As Sansa's husband, Sandor would be expected to attend as well, so both entered the room together. Bran and—to Sansa's surprise—Samwell Tarly were already sitting in the room, Bran by the fire and Samwell anxiously tapping his fingers against the windowsill. Samwell gave a characteristic nervous head-bob to Sansa and tried not to look frightened of Sandor. Bran gave them an emotionless, "Good morning," before turning back to the fire.

Voices came drifting up to them from the hall, and the door burst open revealing Arya and Jon engrossed in lively conversation.

"I'm telling you, Jon, it was Nymeria! I saw her once before in the Riverlands when I was on my way back here, but last night it _was_ her, I swear it!" Arya was pushing at Jon's arm, trying to get him to turn and pay more attention to her.

"I didn't say I don't believe you, I just wanted to know how you _knew_. You said you didn't even see her!" Jon winked at Sansa and took a seat, crossing a leg onto his knee.

"Ghost knew, you saw how he shot out the gate after her." She folded her arms. "I could just tell by the howl. It was a direwolf and it was Nymeria!"

Bran turned to Jon. "It _was_ Nymeria. I was in her mind." He smiled one of his detached smiles.

Jon looked at Bran with amazement, clearly not used to his otherworldly abilities yet, and Arya triumphed. "Ha! I knew it!" she collapsed onto a cushion with a smug look.

"Nymeria is back?" Sansa was surprised, but not displeased. She still held the guilt with her about the loss of both her wolf and her sister's because of what had happened with Joffrey years ago on the Trident.

"Yes. I called her. We will have need of her." Bran faced all of his siblings, looking from one to the next. "We will speak more of her later, for now we need to talk about Jon."

Jon looked around as if he'd been caught in the middle of breaking a rule. "Me? What do we need to talk about me for?" He was still in a lighthearted mood from the festivities of the night before and being reunited with his favorite sister.

"Jon," Samwell's shaky voice was unexpected, and everyone turned to him, which did not help his shyness. He flustered, "It's—it's about something I found at—at the Citadel. And what your brother has seen in his visions." He inclined his head toward Bran. "It's—about," he wiped sweat from his brow, but forced the words out, "it's about your mother, Jon."

Jon was paying attention now. He sat up straight as an arrow and looked from Sam to Bran and back again. "About my mother? Is she alive? Where is she?" His excitement was mounting, "Can you see her, Bran? Have you seen her in your visions? Tell me." He walked quickly to Bran and went down on one knee in front of him, with one hand on his wheeled chair, his eyes imploring.

Bran, never one to waste time, cut straight to the point. "Jon, you are not my father's son."

Jon blanched and almost fell backwards, aghast. Bran continued, "You are the son of my aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen."

Sansa gasped, and Arya shouted, "What?!" Jon sat back on the floor, a dazed look in his eyes.

Sam tried to smooth out the details, "Jon I'd—I'd found a diary from the High Septon in Oldtown and he had annulled Rhaegar's marriage to Elia Martell and _remarried_ him to Lyanna Stark. Your mother." He continued, fairly shaking, "Lyanna wasn't kidnapped and raped as the realm believed. She was in love with Rhaegar and they eloped. Bran _saw_ it!"

It was too much for Jon. He was ghost white and could not seem to find any words. He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of the world-shattering news he'd just received. Bran spoke again, "Before she died, Lyanna told Father your name and made him swear to protect you from King Robert. That's why he told everyone you were his bastard son, or Robert would have had you killed, just like he tried to kill Daenerys and her brother." Bran paused and looked up at Sam, and then to the complete disbelief on the faces of his sisters. His eyes went back to his brother—cousin—on the floor, "Your name isn't Jon, and your surname isn't Snow. You are Aegon Targaryen."

The room fell silent. Jon was shaking now, and his hands were over his mouth. Sansa and Arya were completely speechless, trying to accept the truth of what they'd just heard, turning it about in their minds to make sense of it. It was impossible, and yet, it was true.

"Jon—er—Aegon," Sam gave a little half smile before continuing, "You—you know what this means, don't you?" He paused and looked around the room, before speaking to Jon again, "You're the rightful heir to the iron throne!"

"Gods!" Sansa said slowly, covering her mouth with one hand, and Arya whistled. Sandor, who'd been silent and standing near the door the entire time finally contributed. "So all the wars since Robert's Rebellion have been based on lies? Ain't that a pretty ending."

Jon finally spoke, his voice hardly above a whisper. "You're telling me—I'm a Targaryen?" He looked up at Bran from where he sat on the floor. "A Targaryen like—like Daenerys Targaryen?" He looked at Bran as if he might be sick.

Sam was excited and seemed to miss the direction of Jon's questions. "Aye!" He put in. "She's your aunt!"

"Gods!" Jon groaned and buried his face in his hands. "No, this can't be true." No one denied it. "This can't be true!" It was almost a shout, and his fist went down onto his knee.

Sansa thought she knew the awful truth. "Jon," she breathed. "You—you and Daenerys…?"

He looked at her long and bitterly and then buried his face in his hands again. "Oh, Jon, you didn't know, you can't blame yourself!" She rose and went to him, kneeling and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Arya stood up then, "Wait, what am I missing?" She looked from one face to another, searching for answers. Sandor stood with arms crossed, but he looked over at Arya and answered, "Jon's fucked his aunt."

Jon glared at his new brother-in-law. No, even that wasn't right anymore. His new cousin-in-law? The anger rose in him and he growled his frustration, getting to his feet and storming from the room.

Sansa gave Sandor a look and he raised his hands in front of him as if to say "Okay, sorry!" Arya was still standing open-mouthed, and Sam looked as if he was going to be sick.

Bran turned to the remaining people in the room and said nonchalantly, "Now, to break the news to the Queen."

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"You expect me to believe that this is not just some clever trick conjured up by the King in the North to usurp me out of my rightful crown!" She was furious, her eyes flashing, her jaw clenching each time she stopped speaking for long enough to grind her teeth. "Bring Daenerys here alone, surround her with your Northmen and strip her of her title, is that what you hoped to do, _Jon_ _Snow_?! _"_ Dany said the name with particular emphasis. They were outside of the castle gates where she had stormed away after Bran and Sam had attempted to acquaint her with the secret of Jon's lineage. Jon had followed her.

"If you would just listen for one second," he placed a hand on her shoulder, imploring.

"Do not presume to touch me!" There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes and a tremor in her voice. As if by a silent call, Drogon and Rhaegal had come as soon as Dany had left the castle, and now they shook the earth as they landed mere feet from the couple. "I will not stay and be humiliated and forced from my birthright! How dare you? I gave myself to you!" The tears fell now. "I loved you."

"Daenerys, please!" Jon was distraught. The news of his heritage had felt like a punch in the gut, and now it was turning everything upside-down. He could not lose the support of Daenerys in the fight against the Night King, though he'd already lost the hope of loving her. He had to make her listen. "I need you. We need you. I didn't ask for this, I don't want this! I only want to save my people." He looked in her eyes. "Please."

Dany's mouth twitched, but her eyes were cold. She turned from him and began to climb onto Drogon. Jon had lost. He watched with despair as she settled behind the terrible head of the beast. She looked down at him one last time before she spoke. "Valahd."

Drogon shrieked, his long neck snaking around, his tail thrashing side to side. His wings extended for a moment, before returning to a tuck, and he did not leave the ground. Jon saw Dany's countenance change, a flicker of confusion on her face. "Valahd, Drogon!" She repeated, louder this time, but the beast roared again and crouched closer to the ground. Rhaegal shrieked a response, his reptilian wings crawling along the ground toward Jon. He shrieked again at his mother, before lowering his huge head in front of Jon.

Daenerys was pale; utterly flabbergasted. Her dragons had never disobeyed her before, but they would not leave, it seemed, without Jon.

Jon had turned his attention away from Daenerys, warily eyeing the approach of Rhaegal, his stance loose in preparation to run. Drogon roared again, before placing his giant head and neck on the ground. The dragons would not fly.

The realization of what had occurred began to dawn on him, and Jon looked questioningly at Dany. Her face was stone, but he could see that this was not what she had planned. She was stuck, and was contemplating how to get herself out of the position she was in.

Jon moved toward Drogon slowly, and extended a hand onto the giant snout. Drogon's nostrils moved as the beast took in his scent, and a low rumble came from his throat. His eyes closed at Jon's touch.

Jon looked sheepishly up at Dany, hoping that now he could get her to listen. "Dany, I'm not here to take your crown, I promise you. I don't want the crown, I don't want the iron throne." The sincerity was clear in his voice, she'd learned to recognize it during his time on Dragonstone. "Help me defeat the Night King and it's yours, I swear it. I'll never try to take it from you." One hand rested on Drogon's scales, and the other he held up to Daenerys.

She was battling within herself, but her options were limited, he knew. With her armies still not arrived, her dragons were the only defense she had, and they had refused her for the first time ever. Still, she wanted to believe him. She closed her eyes for a few moments, and finally nodded. Taking his hand, she slowly climbed off the beast.

Daenerys faced him and he kneeled before her. "You're still my queen."

She swallowed hard and let the tears fall. She did not try to wipe them away. "Rise." He rose. His eyes searched her face, and he took her cheek in his hand. She could not contain the sob, and placed her hand on his as her face contracted with emotion.

"I know—," he began, unsure of what he could say to make anything better. "I know this is hard for you, it isn't any easier for me. You're the first woman I've loved in a very long time." She looked up then, hoping to find a solution in his eyes to the predicament they'd found themselves in. He lowered his hand and looked to the ground. "It cannot be like it was."

Dany nodded and the tears fell. He took her into his arms and she wept into the fur on his shoulder.


	11. Chapter 11

**I have been watching fan theories like crazy, trying to finalize how I'm going to end this thing, lol. I hope y'all don't pick me to pieces, I'm throwing this story together in a matter of days so far. :P This chapter was a welcome relief from trying to piece together what GRRMs endgame is X-D**

Chapter 11

Sansa was exhausted and relieved to finally step into her tub at the end of the day. The water was steaming and she released her breath in a satisfied sigh as she slowly sank into it. The oils that Dalla had dripped into the tub swirled around her knees, catching the candlelight and revealing a rainbow of colors. They smelled of lavender and roses and Sansa gathered some in her hands, smoothing them over her skin. She closed her eyes and inhaled the relaxing scent, leaning her head against the edge of the tub.

The day had been long and emotionally taxing. Sansa reflected on the morning in the solar, and how Jon's pain had struck at her, filling her with frustration that she could not help him. That he had been in love with Daenerys had been apparent to her within a day of his return, but she had not admitted it to herself until this morning. How cruel life could be sometimes. And now there was no hope for them, not unless he chose to remain in an incestuous relationship with his aunt!

Sansa cringed at the thought. No, Jon had been raised in the North where such a thing was considered vile. It didn't matter that he was a Targaryen by blood, the family who married brothers to sisters as if it were an acceptable practice, he was still of the North, and the North considered incest to be unnatural, and any children born of such a union were abominations.

Children! The thought was too awful to contemplate. If Jon had slept with Daenerys, it was not an impossible outcome, but Sansa refused to consider what such a consequence would mean for Jon. It was unthinkable. She cupped the fragrant water and lifted it to her face, hoping to wash away her own fear and the sad ache in her heart.

Though Daenerys had reacted as expected, at least she had been convinced to stay and defend against the Night King. The thought of facing his army without her dragons, and hopefully her own forces as well, was terrible. The thought of him in any way was terrible. Everything had become a painful subject to dwell on and Sansa wondered if she'd ever be at peace again.

The sound of her chamber's door being opened and closed again drew her out of her reveries. The only person who would enter unbidden was her husband, and he was the only person who could take her mind off of such unpleasant subjects. She smiled and looked over her shoulder, waiting for him to come around the partition to her bathing room.

"Are you in that bath again, little bird?" She heard him chuckle as he said it, and then the sound of his armor being removed. "Your skin is going to peel off if you bathe any more."

Sansa laughed, "And yours would fall off if you bathed at all, it's hardly used to the experience." Her hands pulled through the water lazily. "Come join me, my love."

He came around the partition and stopped to look at her, his arms folded. His tunic was removed, so his muscular chest was revealed to her, and she bit her lip. "What are you saying?" His eyes narrowed playfully at her.

She withdrew her gaze from his semi-nakedness reluctantly and looked into his eyes, "Hmm? What was I saying? I've forgotten now." Her smile was impish.

"I don't think there's room in there for the both of us, although I can't say I'm not tempted." His eyes moved to her bare breasts where they floated lightly in the steamy water, and the hunger was clear on his face. A familiar bulge began to swell in his breeches and she raised an eyebrow coyly at him. "I'll make room for you. Don't you want to smell like flowers?"

Sandor snorted and grinned. "Smell like a cunt, you mean?" He scratched the back of his head. "Aye, I could use a bath, I suppose." She wondered if he would have felt such a need had there not been a naked woman in the one that was offered to him.

He began to unlace his breeches when he noticed his wife watching his every move. He paused and raised an eyebrow at her, "I think you're liking what you see, _lady_ Stark," a harsh emphasis on the "lady." "What would your septa think?" He began to pull the rest of his clothing off slowly, teasing.

"My mind is far from being on my septa…" she trailed off as his already hard cock sprung out of his breeches when they fell to the floor. She bit her lip again, and her eyes roved his naked body, admiring it in the candlelight. His muscles bulged, and the hair on them only served to enhance the masculinity of the man standing before her. "You make me want to forget that I'm a lady," she said softly, standing to reveal her dripping, naked form to him.

He gave her an animal look then, like it was all he could do to contain his urges, and his cock flexed. He stepped into the tub and ran his hands down her wet hips, pulling her into a kiss. She returned it, exploring his mouth with her tongue, loving the feel of his skin on hers, his manhood pressed against her stomach. Her hands slid around his huge form and caressed his back. When he pulled away for a breath he was panting, and he growled his lust for her.

She smiled and pushed him down into the tub. "That can wait," she said coyly. "First, you bathe." She moved around and sat on the edge of the tub behind him and began to pull water over his shoulders.

"You are cruel, woman," he complained, but the water felt good and he splashed his face and hair with it, shaking it off after like a dog. Sansa squealed and smacked his shoulder with a laugh, "You're doing it wrong!" She took a bar of soap from the small table nearby, "here, let me show you."

She began to wash him with excessive sexuality, dragging out every movement, trailing her skin against his. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, reveling in the thrills that her touches gave him. She washed his arms, his back, his chest. Her hands slid gently, but firmly up his neck and onto his head, massaging his skin and smoothing water over it as she went.

After several minutes, she rose and came around to stand in front of him, preparing to sit and wash more of him. His eyes opened and he grinned, "I like this view." He grabbed her bottom and pulled her toward his face, intending to bury it in the hair between her legs. Sansa gasped, scandalized and her hands grasped his head to stabilize herself. The thought of such a thing had never occurred to her, and she looked down at him, shocked. "Sandor—I…"

"Hush, little bird." He stroked her bottom and thighs with his large, callused hands. "It's my turn." He pushed her legs apart and guided one to rest on the side of the tub. He slid his hand back toward her reddish mound, and Sansa waited nervously, unsure of how to react. She sucked in air softly as his thumbs began to stroke it, her hands still on his head. When she felt the warm, wetness of his mouth on her pleasure spot she gasped in surprise, not only that he did it, but that she liked it. A whine escaped unbidden from her throat.

His tongue caressed the soft pink flesh and he alternated between sucking and licking, one hand pulling her into him and the other resting on her raised thigh. The feeling was unlike anything she'd experienced before, and she moaned softly, closing her eyes in ecstasy. He pulled back for a moment before sliding two fingers inside of her at the same moment that his mouth covered her again. Her body shuddered as a gasping scream escaped her lips, one hand flying up to her neck and pulling at her flesh.

"Ohhhhh gods!" she whispered, pressing his head against her as he slid his fingers in and out, his mouth never leaving her. Her body arched and writhed, but the sensation was incredible and she felt the pleasure rising in her. Gasping and sucking her breath through clenched teeth, she willed him to continue, both wanting more and feeling as if she could not handle the pleasure.

It came suddenly, rushing over her body like a wave, filling her, stretching out to the tips of her fingers, and the soles of her feet. She screamed softly with it, unable to contain herself, and one hand pulled at the hair at the nape of her neck while the other pressed his face into her. Her legs felt as if they would collapse beneath her, and Sandor's final caresses with his tongue made her body convulse with pleasure.

He pulled away from her and stood up out of the water, dripping and hard. The satisfaction on his wife's face made him wild with desire, and he reached down to her legs and pulled her up against him, carrying her out of the tub. He laid her on the edge of the bed, and pressed his cock against her entrance which was wet from his mouth and from her own essence.

Sansa's orgasm had heightened her sensitivity, so the sensation of him entering her was almost unbearable. Her mouth fell open and she gasped loudly, clenching her hands on his shoulders as he leaned over her. Sandor groaned, his hips pressing as far into hers as they could go, and he buried his face into the crook of her neck. He fucked her hard, already having been hugely aroused.

Through clenched teeth he rasped into her ear, "I fucking love fucking you." He put his teeth on her neck and bit down gently, his breath hot against her skin. She whined loudly, and pressed his head against her, "Ohhh, you feel so good inside me. Gods, I want you!"

He pulled up to a standing position again and grasped her thighs, her legs bent over his arms. Thrusting hard as he pulled her into him, he knew he could only last for a few moments longer. "Oh, Sandor, oh, ohhh!" She screamed again, a long, drawn-out whining scream, her inside walls clenching in spasms around him.

The growl that came up from his throat increased in intensity with his climax, his head falling back in his pleasure. The orgasm seemed to move from his stomach and thighs down into his groin, funneling the sensation through him until it burst from his cock, spilling inside her.

His movements slowed until he collapsed on top of his wife, planting exhausted kisses on her face. She smiled, her eyes closed, moaning softly and pulling her fingers through his hair. Sandor lifted his head and looked at her, grinning. "I think I need another bath. I've sweat more just now than I did all day."

Sansa laughed and he grabbed her hands, pulling her back onto her feet. "All right, let's go finish our bath."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The following day, outriders returned to Winterfell with the news of Daenerys' armies a half day's ride from the castle. The news was both welcome and stressful for Sansa and Jon, who were realizing not only how very real the threat felt now, but also how difficult the logistics were proving to be. Every day more people arrived at the castle for refuge: smallfolk from the North who had received whispers or heard first hand tales of the approach of the Walkers and their army. Alys Karstark and Ned Umber, with all the forces and people from Karhold and The Last Hearth had already sent word that they would be marching toward Winterfell as well.

The exodus was on a scale that the North had never before seen, and the pressure of planning and organizing their stand against the Night King was beginning to be suffocating. A war council between the three leaders was called in a small hall off of the barracks to plan for the arrival of the armies.

"Jon, there's simply not enough room for all of these people!" Sansa had been pacing the floor after spending a few minutes acquainting the other two with the scale of the problem. "Already we're trying to provide refuge for those who can't fight, women and children and the weak, but we're even running out of space and provisions for the fighting men and women." She was frustrated, her hands gesturing about her to create emphasis, as Sansa was wont to do when she was trying to drive a point.

"I know, Sansa, but what would you have us do? We can't shut our gates and leave them out to become fodder for his army." Jon was scanning the map they'd laid out on the table, searching for a solution.

Daenerys had been silent, allowing the two to discuss for the time being, as they were the ones who knew the castle and the lands, all of which was foreign to her. Now she stood and approached the table, deep in thought. After a moment, she pointed to the map at White Harbor. "Can we send the people further south? Those who cannot fight?" She paused and looked at the others. "They're extra mouths and a burden to us here, but they're also our future if our war fails." She looked into Jon's eyes, "I came here to be queen, but how can I be a queen with no subjects? I am the _Protector_ of the Realm, I must offer them protection."

Jon looked grim, trying to keep the hopelessness that he felt off of his face. "Aye, but marching south might only buy them time. They'll be weak, and undefended."

Dany was thinking through her plan, her eyes scanning the map. "My ships are here," She placed her finger back on White Harbor. "What are these islands? The dead cannot swim."

Jon looked where she pointed. "The Three Sisters," he grimaced. "Not the nicest of places. Still, you may be right—it'll be better than death." He knitted his brows as he thought through her suggestion.

Daenerys continued, "We can send the people with some protection from our army and instructions to hold up at White Harbor. If we were to fail here," she paused and looked thoughtful, adding as an afterthought, "we'd have to be sure that we are ready to send word if the battle is looking to be lost—they will have instructions to move as many of the people as they can to these islands." She finished with a decided jab of her finger onto the map, looking first at Jon, then Sansa.

Jon turned his attention to Sansa as well, seeking her opinion. She tilted her head sideways and lifted her brows in concession. "It may not be ideal," she drew closer to the table and scanned the map, "but I believe her grace is right, it may be our only option." She looked at both of them, "here they will be in the way, but this way they may have a chance if our armies should fail." She gave a decisive nod and looked up at Jon again. "We should do it."

Jon nodded at Sansa and then back at Dany, before dropping his gaze to the floor, contemplating the decision he must make. "Right. The smallfolk who cannot fight, women and children, and the families of the lords bannermen shall go as well, so that there may still be rule if we are to fail." He looked up at Sansa then, and her pulse quickened. She knew what was coming.

 _No. No, please don't say it._ "I want you to go with them."


	12. Chapter 12

**One thing I wanted to point out is that although Sansa married a Clegane, she will still carry on the line of House Stark. I double checked that there has been precedence for this, and there has, both in the cases of Brandon the Daughterless and also the Mormonts, whose name passed down through Maege who was Jeor's sister. It also makes sense that a name thousands and thousands of years old would have to at some point be broken by those who only had daughters, the name passing down through them instead of through sons. Sansa would keep her maiden name (In the same way that Margaery was still known as Margaery Tyrell, even after marriage, and Cersei Lannister, etc) and her children, as heirs of Winterfell, will also be Starks, hers being the greater name and house in the marriage.**

Chapter 12

"Jon, you can't do this, you can't make me leave my home!" Sansa's anger was the kind that stemmed from deep-seated fears, and she fought to keep the tremor from her voice. She grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around to face her.

"Sansa, this is not up for discussion." Jon was firm, decided. "You are the future of House Stark. Bran can never father sons, and he has relinquished his claim on Winterfell." He looked at the ground and let out a breath in frustration, "With me not even being a bastard son of your father anymore, that leaves _you!_ Just you, Sansa, and Arya after you. And we both know that Arya's chances of marrying and mothering children are about as likely as Bran walking again."

He grasped her shoulders and tried to soften his tone. "Sansa, I know this is hard for you, but we can't risk losing everyone." He caressed her hair affectionately, "You're not a soldier, but you are a leader. I need you to be with our people."

Sansa fought within herself, the muscles in her face clenching, her eyes darting quickly between his. She fumed, but was silent, letting the dread seep over her, disguising itself as duty. She took a deep breath and held it, her teeth set, looking at him. After an eternity that was only a moment, she nodded, resigned, and her eyes fell to the floor.

Jon kissed her forehead, then turned to leave. "What of my husband, Jon?" She was speaking deliberately, forcing the words to be free of emotion and only partially succeeding.

Jon sighed and turned back to her slowly. "We need all the fighting men we can get." His face searched hers. "But, I need to keep you safe as well. The decision will be his and yours." Sansa nodded, and Jon took his leave.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The armies of Daenerys Targaryen arrived and the tents began mushrooming all across the frozen landscape surrounding Winterfell. The rest of her court had been ushered into the hall that they had used to discuss battle plans, and finally the great alliance of the North and the Dragon Queen felt real. Jorah and Tyrion, Grey Worm and Missandei, Brienne, Varys, and Davos all joined the long table at the front of the hall the evening of their arrival. There was all the awkwardness of the reunions that could be expected, but all seemed to be united in their common cause.

No one seemed more surprised at the marriage of Sansa and Sandor than Brienne who was completely at war within herself. Reconciling the idea of the woman she protected being married to the man she'd nearly killed while trying to protect that woman's sister was as difficult to achieve as could be expected. Regardless, she was nothing if not dutiful, and regarded Sandor with forced courtesy, if only for Sansa's sake.

Tyrion found their union most interesting, although when all was said and done, he couldn't say that he was entirely surprised. He'd always known that Sandor had carried a soft spot for the girl, and Sansa herself had had some prior experience at least of being married to a man hideously scarred. He smiled in spite of himself, but he was genuinely happy for Sansa. She was kind and innocent, as he remembered her anyway, and she deserved a man who would protect her. The poor woman had endured enough trauma to last a lifetime. There was no reason bringing up their prior marriage, both parties had known it to be a farce, and both parties had been pleased to see it ended, even if the circumstances surrounding their separation had been less than pleasant.

Varys congratulated the Stark sisters in their manipulation culminating in the execution of Littlefinger. "I have crossed swords with the man many times while we shared seats on the small council, and there has never been a man in all of the Seven Kingdoms with more schemes or lies than Lord Baelish." His arms were folded in front of him, his hands buried inside the opposite sleeve. "The realm bled because of him, and we owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing him justice."

Daenerys acquainted her counselors with their plans of removal for the non-fighting people. They agreed that it was the only viable option, all things considered, and plans were set in place to carry it out as soon as possible. The Karstark and Umber forces were both expected any day, and Bran assured them that the Night King was still not quite near, having marched his army first toward Karhold, which he'd found mostly deserted.

Tyrion put in his oar upon hearing this, "But what can be the Night King's purpose, every living thing has some purpose, does it not?" He questioned the table, looking from one face to another. He had been wanting to have this conversation for some time.

It was Davos who answered. "My lord, I can't say that I know him to be _living_ in the strict interpretation of the word." He looked then to Bran. "I would think that an army of _dead men_ would only seek to accomplish more death. But, I'm not a learned man." He took a breath and cocked his head, "Can we ever know for certain?"

Bran looked at Davos and nodded slowly, "I cannot tell you why he wants what he wants, but the only thing that I have learned his purpose to be is to extinguish life. In killing us, his power grows and, undoubtedly, he seeks power through death." He continued, "He will sweep the entire continent, death will be the force that drives him."

The silence at the table was ominous and uncomfortable, and each hoped that another would speak first. However, it was Bran who continued. "The Night King also seeks me, especially. He killed my predecessor, Bloodraven, in the caves beyond the wall." Bran paused and looked down at his arm, "He placed a mark upon me. I don't know what it means, but he is connected to me. When I see him through the eyes of beasts, he knows."

Tyrion spoke again. "Curious." He looked at Bran for a long moment, and sipped his wine. "Bran, I am told you can see into the past, is this true?" He cocked his head to the side, waiting for the answer.

"Yes."

"Excellent! Gods, if I could be in your mind right now, there are thousands of questions I would ask." Tyrion looked as if he'd been given a great gift.

Jon seemed to grow impatient. "My lord, while my brother's greensight may be interesting to you, there are more important things to discuss at the moment than the history of Westeros."

Tyrion looked at Jon, his fingers propped against each other in the shape of a pyramid. "Are there? I should think that studying the history of Westeros would be _the_ most important thing we could do right now. History, after all, has a way of repeating itself." He looked around the table, hoping his point would sink in.

Jon paused as he thought about Tyrion's response. It was Sansa who spoke, however. "Tyrion, we have spoken with my brother previously about this. We are not altogether without sense, though we may not all boast your knowledge." She spoke authoritatively, but not with the intent of insult. "Bran cannot entirely control his visions. The sight is a skill that must be honed and he is still learning how to direct it." She turned and looked at Bran before continuing. "When he tries to look into the past mysteries which surround the Night King, the memories are clouded and confusing. He is unable to navigate them in the way that he can with the others." She clasped her hands as she finished.

Tyrion leaned forward. "Intriguing. There is more to this, then. We will find the answer." He looked back at Bran. "I am convinced that there is no coincidence in your brother gaining this skill during the same lifetime that dragons are reborn and death marches beyond the wall which had stood for eight thousand years." He raised his eyebrows, and sipped more wine, when a final thought seemed to come to him. "Perhaps there are clues to be found elsewhere? Not through direct visions of the Night King himself, but visions surrounding him? There must be something. We _need_ more than just armies and dragons to defeat him." He finished the rest of his wine and placed the goblet in front of him. "No, we need something greater."

Daenerys raised one eyebrow and questioned him. "And what do you suppose is _greater_ than dragons?"

Tyrion smiled at her and finished his riddle. "Knowledge."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I came to Winterfell for you, little bird. I came to protect you and I'm going to protect you." He stroked her cheek with one hand. "Wherever you go, I'm coming too."

Sansa nodded and gave him a weary smile. "I thought you would say that." She sighed and sat on the bench near the window, with a view of the frozen North beyond. "Still, I don't want to leave. My place is here. Winterfell is my home."

Sandor studied her profile, the light from the window casting a glow about her features. She had grown and matured in the years since King's Landing, but she still had the ability to strike him senseless with her beauty and innocence. She was all that he could never have, and yet somehow he had her. He approached her now and put a hand on her shoulder. "We will make a home wherever we go."

He turned and sat down next to her, facing the opposite direction on the bench. "I can never remember a feeling of 'home,' even as a child." He sounded uncharacteristically wistful, and Sansa turned to look at him. She was seated on the untouched side of his face, an angle where it was impossible to tell that he'd ever been burned. She was surprised at how handsome he was. Had she ever noticed it before? Perhaps she had, but not so acutely. After a moment he continued, looking down at her. "But, when I'm with you, I feel home."

It was such a sweet sentiment, and the girl that still lived inside of her—often hidden under layers of pain and suffering—was stricken with the romance of it. She smiled at him and grasped his arm, laying her head on his shoulder. She was silent for a moment, her thoughts trailing off to the time they'd spent together in the capital.

"Sandor," she said finally, "You told me that you had always loved me. Did you love me even in King's Landing?" She looked up at him with those pretty blue eyes, the innocence beaming out of them in her reminiscence. Sometimes she was still the Sansa from those days.

"Aye, I believe I did, though I didn't know it myself." He looked down at his lap, "I hated myself for not stopping them. For not doing more. When they hurt you." There was regret in his voice. "After I left that gods-forsaken place, my perspective changed. It took long enough," he chuckled sadly, "but one day I realized I was no longer living for hate. I don't know when it happened exactly, I guess it was a long time coming." He looked down at her again, "but I think the first time I remember feeling a difference was when I was thinking of you." He studied her face with the look that he sometimes had, whenever he was feeling like he could never deserve her. "My little bird."

"Oh, Sandor." Her heart gave a quick little beat. "How could I have taken so long to see you for who you are? Joffrey was such a monster, and all of the knights and lords and ladies weren't much better." She looked up at him, "but you? You were gentle to me, when you had no reason to be, when you could have been punished for it." She smiled, "My father was right, I was such a fool to think that Joffrey was the ideal of my true love." She laughed softly in remembrance. "I was angry when he told me we were going back to Winterfell and that I would not marry Joffrey anymore. I begged him, but he said he would make me a match someday with someone who was worthy of me. Someone who was brave, and gentle, and strong."

She met his gaze, looking deep into those large brown eyes that she had felt watching her so many times when she'd lived in the capital. "I like to think that Father would be pleased that I took his advice." She reached up and stroked his cheek gently. "You were always all of those things to me, and I was so blinded by fantasy that I couldn't see it. But I see it now," she kissed him softly on the lips. "And I love you for it."


	13. Chapter 13

**Moar reviews! Haha, thanks everyone. I started this story as an outlet for my SanSan obsession, but apparently now I'm finishing ASOIAF so whatever, I'm down for some fun. I'm not going to stretch it out quite as long as I'm sure it will actually go, but I'll try to do it some justice.**

Chapter 13

Jon had decided that it would be best if the revelation about his lineage was made by Daenerys herself to her court, with Bran and Samwell present. He requested that it be understated, since it was not his primary focus and he would not have their purpose distracted by the information. Daenerys agreed, and after Jon and the others had left, she'd broken the news, attempting to give it as little importance as possible without appearing petty or threatened by it. She told them of Jon's having relinquished any rights to rule, and that was that.

This was much easier said than done, however, as the following morning while they broke their fast, the members of her council could not cease staring at Jon. Tyrion and Varys especially seemed absolutely floored. It irritated Jon to be the center of their attention, and he was relieved when Bran requested another meeting of the council after breakfast. Hopefully it would involve discussion about how to defeat their actual foe and not questions about what his Targaryen status would mean to the realm.

The group found themselves once again seated around the long table in the small hall, and Bran began without delay.

"After Lord Tyrion's suggestion last night, I went into the visions in search of clues. I was reminded of something that Jojen Reed had told me about his father, Howland. Howland Reed was at the Tower of Joy with Father, where you were born." He was looking at Jon now. "He may have been one of the only people who knew who you really are."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Tyrion gave a bit of an impatient laugh, "but are we all going to pretend that this news of your father and mother is not important?" He looked around the table with anything but humor in his eyes. Bran did not seem overly concerned with the interruption; his face was as expressionless as usual. "The realm bled when Robert thought his beloved was raped and kidnapped, everyone believed it, and now it was all just a love affair, resulting in our own dear Jon Snow—I'm sorry, Aegon Targaryen?!" He surveyed the others with incredulity. "Frankly, I don't understand how you all aren't….well more interested in this news? Am I wrong, Varys?" He gestured impatiently at the eunuch, leaning sideways in his chair.

Both Jon and Daenerys looked at Tyrion will ill-suppressed anger. Varys flustered at being asked to partake in the awkward situation, but tried to smooth it over. "You are not wrong, my lord, it is very curious news indeed." He looked to Daenerys, "We understand that you and Jon Snow—or Lord Aegon?—have come to an agreement regarding the iron throne, and you know that we still remain loyal to you as our Queen, but…" he drifted off, directing his gaze at Jon with an expression of calm amazement. "But I cannot pretend that I am not very interested in this information. No one ever breathed a word of it, and I have built a reputation on hearing whispers that no other man hears."

"Good, I'm glad we're all interested in me," said Jon with heightened frustration, "I don't see what my true parentage has to do with defeating the Night King or his army!"

Tyrion interrupted again, "I'm sorry my lord," Jon looked as if he might punch Tyrion in the face. "Truly I don't mean to be difficult, but this may have much to do with the Night King." He was very determined to make the room understand the gravity of the revelation. "As we all learned after your lovely chiseled chest was revealed to us on the ship, you have actually _risen from the dead!_ " His voice had risen in intensity and volume and he stared at Jon with a look that was meant to impart the seriousness of the information. "I like you Jon, I always have, but when I first met you, you were a sullen bastard boy off to join the Night's Watch. Now I find you are some kind of undead Savior, the magical lovechild of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, for the first time in history a _child_ _of ice and fire_." The entire table looked at him. "DOES NO ONE ELSE FIND THIS INFORMATION INTERESTING?!"

Tyrion was clearly exasperated. This, he thought, was why reading books and learning history was so important, so that when information of relevance is shared with you, you don't stare at it stupidly wondering what should be done with it.

Jon was uncomfortable at Tyrion's suggestions, but his anger still had dominance over his other emotions, "Aye, so I'm a Targaryen. I came back from the dead, after being betrayed by my own brothers. I still don't see how that can help us right now, when the dead are coming beyond the wall for the first time in eight thousand years!" His fist slammed on the table. "Why are we still stuck on who rules the Seven Kingdoms? Let Daenerys be queen, I don't want the crown!"

Tyrion thought that was even more curious, but he would push it no further. "All right. We will leave it." He raised his hands in surrender. "But," his eyes narrowed seriously, "Mark my words, this will come up again before this war—the war with the dead—is over." His finger jabbed down on the table. "If none of you can see the significance in this, I will not bother trying to educate you. Please continue, Lord Brandon Stark." He was defeated, and annoyed, and he folded his arms in frustration.

"It will be of importance," Bran said, "You are right, Lord Tyrion. But for now, we need to learn more." He resumed his prior train of thought. "Jojen's father, Howland once visited the Isle of the Faces, in the God's Eye. He is the only man I know of to have visited the island in a very long time." He turned back to Jon. "He was there directly before he attended the tourney at Harrenhal. The tournament was where it was first noted that your father, Rhaegar, favored Lyanna."

Some of the council looked at each other, and then back to Bran, waiting for more. Bran folded his hands in front of him. "The Isle of Faces eludes me. I cannot see what is there, though I tried for some time last night." A shade of remorse seemed to cross over Bran's face, not in the same way that it would have been for Bran once, but as much as could be expected for the three-eyed-raven Bran. "Because of my impatience with Bloodraven, I caused his death. I ventured out into the visions alone and was marked by the Night King. Through my mistake, my friends were killed, and I was not able to complete my training. There is still much I do not understand."

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the table, his face growing thoughtful again. "The Isle of Faces is shrouded in mystery. As the place where the First Men and the Children of the Forest made their pact for peace, it should hold significance in our new _magical_ world." He pronounced the last two words with a hint of sarcasm. "Did you not mention last night that the Children were the ones who created the Others in the first place?"

"Yes, in the vision I saw, they created the Night King in a ritual involving obsidian pressed into his heart." Tyrion shuddered visibly. "But, I only saw the Night King being created. I am not certain how they are reproducing."

Jon spoke then. "When we were at Craster's Keep ranging north with Lord Mormont, I saw Craster leave his son in the forest for them. One of the Walkers took the child. Lord Commander Mormont said that Craster had been making the sacrifices for years." He nodded in the direction of Sam. "Gilly, the woman who came with Sam is one of Craster's daughters. She fled with us so that her son would not be a sacrifice to them as well."

Sam nodded and looked nervous at being prompted to speak. "Yes and—and after the m-mutiny," he looked nervously at Jorah, who cast his eyes to the table. Sam continued, "Gilly and I ran away toward the wall. They—they came for the baby, for little Sam." He swallowed, nervous sweat beading on his forehead. "I k-killed the Walker. With the dragonglass dagger."

More than a few eyebrows raised at the news. The idea of fat, nervous Sam killing anything as terrifying as a White Walker seemed ridiculous. No one challenged the story, however.

Bran nodded, "Yes, I have thought that perhaps they do not have the ability to reproduce. They may turn the babes into their own kind in a similar ritual to the one I witnessed. I need to know. I believe the answers we need will be found at the Isle of the Faces." He looked around, scanning the eyes of those seated at the table, all turned toward him. "I think the Children may still be living there."

Varys nodded and said, "I would not be surprised my lord. Little is known of the Isle, or even of the Crannogmen who live in the Neck. They are said to still possess the magic of the Greenseers." He looked at Bran, "Your Jojen you say had the greensight. I have heard whispers of many strange sightings near the God's Eye, but nothing is ever known for certain."

Tyrion wanted to bring the discussion to practical application. "So we agree that you must journey to the Isle of the Faces. Makes sense." He looked at Bran and asked, "How do you propose to get there? It's a long enough journey for a man who can ride, it will be even longer to transport _you_ there. Then, there's the little problem of no boat ever having been known to make it onto the Isle. There's always some strange occurrence preventing it." He raised a hand for emphasis, "Oh, one more thing. The Night King is just around the corner." He grew serious again. "There is no time, Bran."

Bran returned his gaze. "You're right. But there is another way to get there." He turned to Daenerys.

"You want to take my dragons?" She looked very displeased with the idea. "And we'll just leave the North defended by men, and hope that my dead dragon does not lay waste to the entire army in our absence?"

Bran explained, "I want to take _one_ of your dragons. You will stay here with the other."

Daenerys did not like the way this boy presumed to make plans for her. Still, his knowledge frightened her, and she was unsure of how to proceed with him. To refuse him might drive him to some unknown magic. She found a way out, however, that was not a direct refusal, "My dragons only respond to me, how do you propose to direct them? There is no one else whom they trust." She said the last sentence with half-conviction, glancing at Jon nervously.

Bran replied calmly, "I am a skinchanger. I can be inside their minds as I was with my direwolf." Several gasps erupted at the thought. Though everyone had known of Bran's abilities, the prospect of him actually warging into a dragon sent chills down the spine of nearly every person at the table.

Dany was taken aback. "You—you have been in their minds already?" She was afraid of his answer.

"I have." He looked directly into her eyes. She knew then, why Drogon had not left that day. The anger rose up inside of her like a cauldron threatening to overflow. But his eyes had the wisdom of millennia inside of them, and she found that she was actually subdued by him. Daenerys, who was used to being in control at all times, used to people cowering to her decisions, hesitated now in the face of this boy. There was no time to consider a reaction, to decide how to best play this out. If the boy truly could control her dragons without her consent, then she had met her match. He'd played her own card against her.

She decided it would be best to consent, so as to still appear to be in control. There would be time later to consider what this meant for her. She nodded, attempting to appear gracious and said, "I believe you are right, we will need greater knowledge of the Night King to defeat him. We cannot lose another of _my_ dragons to him." She straightened, and portrayed her best queenly demeanor. "You will take Rhaegal."

Bran nodded his acquiescence, "Thank you, your grace." He looked at the rest of the table. "I will need someone to join me, someone who can be my legs, and my sword." His eyes moved down the table, from face to face. "Someone with great strength and great skill." They landed on Sandor.

Sansa had been watching and listening with as much interest as anyone else, although with nothing specific to contribute to the conversation. Now she looked at Bran and back to her husband, her pulse quickening. She could not show her fear to the council. Though she hated the arrangement, she felt the urgency and authority in Bran's decision, and she knew it would be useless to argue. Sandor was looking at her, the question in his eyes. She swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes falling to the table.

Sandor stood. Everything he had said to her last night came to her mind. _"Wherever you go, I'm coming too."_ She fought to keep the bitterness from her heart, remembering the fear from when she had been Ramsay's prisoner. _No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone. Don't ever forget that, Sansa. Everyone you love can be taken from you at any moment._ Her heart broke a little and her stomach churned. There was little room anymore for the influence of love on decisions. Not when the fate of every man and woman depended on their ability to stop the Night King.

His rasping voice, the voice she loved more than any other, shook her from her thoughts. "Aye. If you need me, I'll go."

Bran nodded, "We will leave within the hour."


	14. Chapter 14

**What do you guys think of the characters so far? I've tried to play their personalities out in my head as I write their reactions. Hopefully it comes across true to their nature. There's SO many major characters all together at once, that it's hard to give them all "screen time." That's why the ones who are generally silent (Grey Worm, Missandei, Brienne, etc.) haven't said much, but you have to imagine them still present, brooding silently. ;)**

Chapter 14

Sansa followed her husband into their room and closed the door. The decisions that had been made during the council hung in the air, bringing with them a feeling of dread. She was determined to be strong, to do her duty. To not be the foolish girl who believed her knight could save her. She steeled her resolve and smiled at her love, giving him the reassurance that she would, in fact, be just fine.

Sandor reached for her hand and held it in his, and he saw her strength falter. For just a moment the armor she wore on her face had slipped away and the old Sansa was there, the frightened girl who needed his protection. But it passed quickly, and before he'd even fully registered the difference, she was Lady Stark again. He could no longer see the fear or pain in her eyes, only a sense of duty.

"Little bird," he rasped, unsure of what he could say to make her happy, to make himself feel any less like he was abandoning her.

"I know," she responded, a brave smile flashing beneath the resolute eyes, those beautiful blue eyes he loved. "This is something that you _must_ do. I and everyone else here, maybe even everyone in the world, might have fates resting on what you must do for my brother." Her eyes met his, "I have Brienne here again to protect me and Jon will not send us away to White Harbor until you return. He told me that we will wait until we know of your success or failure." She looked away as she thought of the implications of the latter, "We will wait for at least three days." She swallowed hard.

Sandor took her cheek in his huge, rough hand and kissed her forehead gently. "Promise me that you'll be here when I come back, Sansa?" His eyes moved back and forth between hers. "I couldn't bear to lose you."

Sansa nodded and smiled bravely again, "If the dead arrive while you're gone, I have plans to move into the crypts with the others who cannot fight. We will be safe there. The crypts are huge," she looked up and beyond him a little, remembering. "They just go on and on, further and further beneath the castle. Father told us once that the crypts below are larger even than all of the rooms of the castle." She squeezed his hand, "I will be there and I will wait for you. Jon will not make me leave without you."

He smiled down at his wife, reflecting on the incredible luck he had to have not just a beautiful woman, but a strong and intelligent one. "I hope your creepy brother will find whatever he needs on that island quickly. I don't much like the sound of the place."

She laughed at his description of Bran. Sandor's rough edges and honest language was one of the most endearing things about him, Sansa thought, although she tried not to let it show. She must still be the lady of Winterfell.

The husband and wife shared a few last moments together, creating memories which would hold them over until they would be reunited. Then they left the room together to face their duty.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What the bloody hell is that?" Sandor gestured at an odd contraption made with wood and leather, with multiple straps, which was held by a servant who had accompanied Bran to the courtyard.

"It is what you will use to carry me," Bran responded. "Hodor used something like it when I was younger. I had this one made after the dead passed the wall." He looked up at Sandor, "I knew I would need someone to be my legs at some point." Bran smiled a rare smile then, "Thank you, Sandor."

Clegane was taken aback at the praise from the boy, and nodded gruffly. "Apparently all our lives depend on me carrying a crippled lad to talk to some trees on the back of a dragon." He shrugged. "The world's gone mad, but at least it's a hell of a lot more interesting than it was."

Daenerys and her council joined them in the courtyard then, and Jorah stepped forward at Dany's gesture. "Ser Jorah will be accompanying you on your journey," her eyes moved from Sandor to Bran, and they had an expression in them that would brook no argument. "The dragons have known him since they were hatched, and he them. Ser Jorah also represents my half of our alliance, and will bring additional protection so that we can all be more at ease that you will return safely." She clasped her hands and continued, "If you were to encounter enemies on the Isle, it would be difficult to fight while carrying Lord Bran." She directed the last sentence to Clegane.

Sandor nodded, not at all opposed to the additional company and fighting presence. Jon, Arya, Sam and the others had joined in the courtyard to see the travelers off.

After a few minutes Bran was strapped to Sandor and the sight was a curious one. As tall as he was already, with Bran's head and shoulders resting above his, he looked almost like an odd, two headed giant. He wore only mail and leather, the armor having been too restrictive to wear with his large burden, and he carried his sword and a knife of dragonglass. The obsidian that Jon had mined from Dragonstone had arrived with Dany's armies, and the blacksmiths had been working it into weapons at a feverish pace.

A small canvas bag with provisions was carried by Ser Jorah, who was fully armored, and they set off beyond the castle gates, the others following to see them on their journey. Bran had planned only to be gone a day or two at most, as he knew the dragon would be able to make the distance to the God's Eye in several hours. After spending time in the minds of the dragons, he had learned much about them.

"Sandor," Bran's voice sounded surprisingly close, and it startled a curse out of him. Bran continued as if he had not heard. "When I am in Rhaegal's mind, I will be unable to hear you. It will be difficult to draw me back to my own body."

Sandor nodded, understanding. It would be a long flight, but at least he didn't have to have awkward conversation with his brother-in-law. The thought actually relaxed him a little. He reflected that Ser Jorah would be there for company, but at least the knight wasn't able to penetrate into his past and make him feel naked as Bran could.

Then suddenly the dragons were there, shrieking as they circled over their heads before landing in the snow ahead of them. Sandor tensed, feeling the fear that every man knew when in the presence of the great beasts. Their mother was there, standing a few feet away with the others who had come to watch them leave, but still they were dragons, and dragons were untamed.

If Sandor could have seen Bran at that moment, he would have seen that his eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites of them. At the same moment, Rhaegal's head whipped in their direction and he crawled closer. When he grew near, he lowered his head to the ground and waited.

Sandor turned for a final look at those standing behind him. Daenerys was pale, but her face was set and her chin was high. A few of the faces he saw showed fear, and some curiosity at seeing Bran in the state of his skinchanging, but most were solemn and resigned. He nodded a farewell to the crowd, and his eyes found Sansa's. She smiled weakly at him and nodded gently.

The reality of what was happening, where he was going, and the threat that was coming fell heavily on him in that moment. He wanted nothing more than to unstrap his burden and carry his wife away to an island, far away from everyone and everything that threatened to tear them from each other. He smiled back at her, a little sadly, before turning back to the beast.

Sandor looked into the huge and terrible eyes which seemed to be changed ever so slightly, a flicker of greater intelligence in them. "I hope you realize how awkward this shit is," he jerked his thumb in the direction of his burden. "You'll need to fly steady or you'll fall off, and me with you." The dragon of course, said nothing, but he knew the boy inside understood.

He climbed on and settled himself as best he could where he felt the danger of falling would be the least. Ser Jorah settled behind him to add greater protection and stability to the awkward Bran-backpack. Sandor gave one final look at the faces watching him. "This is a shit idea." And then the world fell away beneath him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sansa watched the dragon disappear into the distance, his brother still on the ground, roaring occasionally, but with no intention of leaving his mother. She didn't care about him, or anyone else around her in that moment. She only thought of her heart breaking inside of her, feeling as if a cloak which had surrounded her—protected her—had been ripped away. She was naked, alone, and afraid. More than anything, she feared that she would never see him again.

A hand found hers and squeezed it. Arya's voice sounded distant, though it was right beside her. "He'll come back, Sansa. I've never seen a man harder to kill than Sandor Clegane. He has some purpose, and so does Bran. Everything depends on them making it back. So they will."

Sansa's gaze fell to her feet, but she smiled weakly. "Thank you, Arya," she almost whispered, not trusting her voice. "I hope you are right." They turned to walk back to the castle with the others.

Jon's voice drifted back to her as they walked, and she listened absently to what he was saying. "The Umbers and Karstark forces with all their people have been seen to the north. They will be arriving near sundown." Someone responded, but she could not hear what was said. She had a vague idea that she should be among them, discussing appointments and plans to take to the steward, but she could not bring herself to care just yet.

"The bastard is with them," the voice was Davos, "we left Tormund with instructions to send him to The Last Hearth after he regained his strength." More words that she could not hear. Then Jon's voice sounded again, "He's a strong lad, we can use more like him."

"Who are they talking about?" Asked Arya beside her. "What bastard?"

Sansa shrugged, not really caring. "I don't know." She wanted to be alone then, just long enough to recover and be able to return to serving her people. "I am going to my room, Arya, if anyone looks for me. I'll be back soon, I—I just need a few minutes."

Arya nodded and smiled a little sadly at her sister. Then she turned to follow the others, as Sansa headed to the lord's chambers.

When she opened the door, the sadness fell upon her completely, engulfing her and threatening to drown her in it. She saw him in her mind's eye, his hand propped up behind his head on the pillows, a lazy grin on his face. She heard him call her to him. _"Little bird…"_

The pain in her throat was unbearable, and she released it in a choking sob. Somehow she made it to the bed and buried her head in the pillow that was his. It gave her his scent, and she gave it her tears.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the Umber and Karstark host had arrived, the lord and lady were brought to the great hall, along with many of their knights and the other important men and women of their courts. They gathered in front of the long table where the Starks and Daenerys with some of her council were seated. Ned Umber was a lad, a few years younger than Rickon would have been, and Alys Karstark was a young woman. They had inherited the rule of their castles after their predecessors had perished in the Battle of the Bastards. Jon had pardoned their houses of the treason they had done, and charged the new young lord and lady to serve the King in the North faithfully from that day on. Now they knelt before him, and Jon introduced them to Daenerys to whom he and the North now belonged. They paid their proper respects to her.

Since the first moment that the great lords in the North had learned of Jon's fealty to Dany, there had been uncertainty and even some unrest. However, the time to discuss their loyalties and the North's independence was not now. They knew that they needed Daenerys with her armies and dragons for their survival. Once the threat of the dead was passed—assuming the living won the war—they could express their uncertainties or concerns for the future of the rule in the North.

Sansa's attention shifted to a young man who was very strong and handsome. He had black hair and striking blue eyes and was standing just behind the lord and lady. She had never seen him before and wondered passingly who he might be. He was not exceptionally tall, but he was well-built, and he carried a war hammer. This made her think of the only other person she'd ever known to have used a war hammer, King Robert Baratheon. The man was staring unblinkingly at her. No actually, not quite at _her_. Sansa looked to where Arya sat on her left.

Her sister sat gaping, and was returning the young man's gaze. Sansa was struck almost dumb with the realization that Arya was blushing! _She must know him!_

The man's attention was pulled away from her sister for a moment to respond to Jon's inquiry after his health. When he spoke, his voice matched his appearance; strong and unwavering. "Thank you, milord, I am well. The maester at the wall saw to my recovery until I was well enough to travel. Lord Umber's household was kind enough to keep me as guest until your return to Winterfell." He looked at Arya again, "Forgive me, milord, for not telling you before, but I know your sister, the lady Arya." Arya looked flustered at the attention drawn to her, and she held her chin up. Gendry continued, "I didn't mention it to you before because I didn't know that she was alive and home, and I did not wish to pain you. I only learned she was here after arriving at The Last Hearth." His gaze moved back to Arya and he cracked a smile.

Jon looked sideways at Arya, and responded, "You know her?"

"Aye, we travelled together from King's Landing with Yoren and the other men and boys who were meant for the Night's Watch, after your father was executed. Milady was dressed as a boy, but she didn't fool me. The last time I saw her was when the Brotherhood sold me to the red witch." He turned to address Arya. "I am happy to see that you're alive and well, milady."

Sansa had never in her life seen Arya look the way that she did now. She was fighting to keep the strong and unflinching expression on her face which was her way now, but Sansa could see that this man unnerved her. Arya was silent for a moment, before she finally found her voice, "How did you end up here?"

Gendry nodded at Davos, "He freed me from the red witch and helped me back to King's Landing. Then he found me again when he came with Lord Tyrion to speak with Jaime Lannister." He shrugged, "I came back with them, and went North of the wall with your brother. Did you not know this?" He cocked his head at Jon, surprised.

Jon was the one who spoke then. "I have told my sisters the details of the journey beyond the wall, but" he looked thoughtful, "I suppose I must not have actually said your name in the telling. I didn't know that she knew of you." Jon smiled at Arya before continuing. "You will have much to catch up on, I'm sure. For now please excuse me my lords and ladies, there is much to be done yet, and little time to do it. The servants will see you all to your chambers."

Their guests nodded respectfully, and the hall began to empty. Sansa watched Arya as she walked down to speak with Gendry. He bowed slightly to her and she inclined her head in response with a bit of a shy grin. They engaged in a conversation that looked only slightly awkward, and Sansa began to take her leave as well, so as not to appear to be eavesdropping. Arya stopped her, however, by calling her name, so Sansa approached them.

"Gendry this is my sister, Lady Sansa." Sansa smiled and curtsied to him, and Gendry looked a bit shy to be in the presence of an important lady whom he did not know, and a beautiful one at that.

"You are very welcome at Winterfell, Gendry. I am pleased to meet one of Arya's friends and I have been told that our brother and my husband owe you their lives."

Gendry raised his eyebrows, "Your husband? I'm sorry I don't know…" he looked at Arya for help.

"Sansa was recently wed to Sandor Clegane," Arya smiled at the shock on Gendry's face, who—to his credit—at least tried to not show it.

"Oh!" he said, rather stupidly. "That is—that's very nice to hear." The young man had no idea what should be said in such an instance to a highborn lady. Arya changed the subject to spare him more embarrassment. "Gendry, why did the red woman and the gold cloaks want you?"

Gendry looked genuinely surprised. "You don't know?" He looked back and forth between the Stark sisters. "But, your father…he came to see me in King's Landing."

"Yes, I remember you told me that, but you didn't tell me why," Arya reminded him.

"That's 'cause I didn't know why at the time. Not until the red woman told me." The shy look returned, but there was pride on his face as well. "I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard son." He stood up straighter.

Sansa raised her eyebrows in surprise, but Arya's mouth was open. "King Robert's bastard son? You? You're the bastard son of the king?"

Gendry was enjoying himself now, "Aye, that's what I said, isn't it? You don't need to be upset, milady, that you're not the only one with a secret identity anymore." There was a jesting familiarity behind his words that Sansa did not miss, and neither did Arya, who punched his arm.

"I'm not upset! I'm just—surprised." Suddenly Arya was at a loss for words.

Sansa felt her cue, "Well, I must be meeting with the steward. It was very nice to meet you, Gendry." He bowed his response, and just before she turned to leave, Sansa caught his impish eyes moving back to Arya.

As she left the hall, Sansa heard more outbursts from Arya, with a tone of denial in them, followed by laughter from Gendry. Sansa chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head. She had seen dragons and magic, but nothing surprised her more than Arya with a love interest.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Unlike the journey back to the wall from the frozen waste beyond, Sandor found himself actually enjoying this dragon ride. Soaring over the plains and forests below was an incredible feeling, and he wondered at how he was lucky enough to have experienced something that few living men could boast of. And not just once, but twice.

Jorah and he did not speak much during the flight. Neither man was particularly talkative to begin with, and the air rushing past them made conversation nearly impossible anyway. At one point, Jorah pointed at a horde of mounted men that looked as small as insects far below and shouted, "Dothraki." They were riding up the Kingsroad toward Winterfell, probably not more than a day or two from their destination.

Aside from attempting to assign everything he saw to its location on the map in his head, there was little to do but enjoy the view. And it was an incredible view. From this height, one could hardly believe that there had been war and destruction plaguing Westeros for years now. All the earth appeared green, the distant sea a sapphire blue. Holdfasts and farms dotted the landscape, although from this height it was impossible to discern if they were whole or destroyed. Castles could be seen in the distance, and once he even craned his head around to get a glimpse of the wall, stretching across the horizon in the North.

After some time had passed, Sandor's back began to ache. The wind in his face made his eyes water and he was violently thirsty. Grabbing a drink while in flight was not something he wanted to attempt with the burden he carried. Letting go of his hold on Rhaegal's spines felt unsafe so he resolved to just wait. The monotonous motions of the beast in flight was lulling and he had to actively fight drifting off into a sleep that could end up being his last.

Just as he started to feel as if he couldn't take much longer in his cramped and uncomfortable position, a great castle rose ahead of them. There was only one castle that looked like that in all of the Seven Kingdoms, the towers stretching up into the sky bearing scars from the last time a dragon had visited it. The melted stone bore witness to the dragonfire which had killed its original owner, Harren, and his entire household at Harrenhal during Aegon's Conquest.

Sandor turned his attention to the body of water which lay on the far side of the great castle. The God's Eye. In the center of the lake, he knew, their destination awaited them. He would soon be one of the only men in recent history to set foot on the Isle of Faces.

The earth had been growing steadily closer, although he had hardly noticed it until now when the towers of Harrenhal seemed almost near enough to touch. If the stone had been alive with memories of its own, it would have been cowering in fear at the sight of the great beast's approach, the same kind of beast which had brought its destruction centuries before.

Then they were soaring over the water, the dragon's great reflection following them across its surface. After a few moments, the island materialized in the distance out of the fog which surrounded it and gave it an eerie appearance.

The question of where they would land had not even occurred to them until now. The island was covered in a great forest, the trees extending nearly to the shore on every side. Bran in Rhaegal's body began to follow the shoreline, searching for a place where they could land.

Finally he decided on an outcropping of rock at the edge of the forest, not very large, but the trees that were there were small and they should be able to accomplish it. Rhaegal's huge, leathery wings slowed their descent, the great gusts of air sending leaves and sticks scattering from beneath them. A few small trees snapped like twigs under the incredible weight of the monster's legs, and in the next moment, they were grounded.

Jorah assisted Sandor in the awkward climb down from their position atop the dragon. He glanced at Bran whose eyes were still white, then looked at Sandor, trying to determine what their next move would be. Before they could begin to discuss their options, however, Rhaegal was preparing to fly again and the men ducked back toward the forest to avoid his great wings.

As the dragon ascended, Bran came back to them.

Jorah cast a nervous glance toward Rhaegal, now already fading from view into the fog, "Should we allow him to leave us, my lord?"

Bran did not seem concerned. "He could not stay on the island. He is hungry and will search these hills for his meal. Rhaegal has greater than usual intelligence for a beast and I believe I was able to make him understand what his purpose here is." Bran looked down at Jorah. "He will not go far. We will rest here and eat."

Sandor found a place to sit and unstrap his burden. The design of the pack was clever as it allowed the wearer to easily remove it, while still offering support to the rider. Sandor ensured that Bran was secured up against a tree trunk before he drew his arms behind him and stretched.

"Bloody hell, that thing is pain." He sat and took the food that Jorah was offering him, tearing into it like a man starving.

"I will take a turn to carry him," Jorah said as he ate his hard cheese and salt beef. "We will need to share the burden to keep our strength." Sandor nodded distractedly, more concerned at the moment with eating.

He looked about him as he ate. The forest seemed eerily quiet. The only sounds were of his companions as they chewed their meal and the water of the God's Eye gently lapping against the rocks below. When he looked into the forest, he could only see a short distance through the trees before the light seemed almost completely blocked out from the canopy. He was not looking forward to venturing further in.

When they had rested for long enough to finish the meal and stretch their travel-weary limbs, Sandor helped Jorah strap Bran on his back. He'd had to remove some of Jorah's armor to accomplish the task and Sandor wore it instead of carrying it, despite it being somewhat ill-fitting. When they were ready, he looked up at the boy whose head and shoulders were resting above Jorah's head.

"So, what's the plan? Do we just go traipsing through that?" He had his sword drawn and pointed with it into the forest.

Bran nodded, "Yes, but they will find us before long. They know I am coming."

A chill crept down Sandor's spine and he muttered to himself, "Fucking weird boy." He shook his head and followed Jorah into the dense forest of the Isle of Faces.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sansa crawled into her bed that night feeling like she was missing a huge part of herself. The large bed seemed to sprawl out forever, with no one to keep her company. Had it always been so big? It seemed like he had always been there, though it hadn't been more than 10 days since he'd begun sleeping with her. She pulled his pillow in to her and closed her eyes while she took in his scent. It left her with a vicious longing, a primal desire for him to be next to her, naked and warm.

Her thoughts drifted lazily to days long ago; to a time when she first remembered feeling the stirrings in her breast for the Hound. She reflected on the first time she'd seen him, when she was still obsessed with the idea of marrying her prince. Sansa grimaced in remembrance of her own stupidity. But no, she'd definitely not felt anything but disgust for the Hound then. He was frightening and coarse—so unlike what a true knight should be that it was almost comical.

She remembered on the Kingsroad when he'd spoken to her, asking if he frightened her. He _had_ frightened her, although it had been different than the fear she'd felt at seeing Ser Ilyn Payne's countenance. The headsmen had filled her with an ominous sense of dread, a fear that crawled up her spine and made her want to flee. The fear she'd felt at seeing the Hound was different. It wasn't a fear that he'd harm her, really, but more that she had to be courteous to him when he disgusted her. She hadn't liked how he destroyed her ideal of what a knight should look and talk like. She was afraid of the truth that he revealed about the world she lived in.

But then things had changed when Joffrey had taken her father's head. The very face of evil as she imagined it had turned from an ambiguous, dark shape into the likeness of a handsome blonde boy who wore gold and a sneer. And somewhere around the same time she had begun to see Sandor's melted face with a feeling that was more than pity or fear. She began to feel relief. She remembered how she would look for him immediately whenever Joffrey was there, and feel safer when she saw him. But, eventually there was more than that too.

She remembered back to the first time she'd felt something else from him. He'd looked at her as if he wanted to consume her, and instead of frightening her as it should have, she'd thrilled a little inside. She thought of how awful it had felt to admit it to herself, to admit that she _wanted_ him to look at her that way. He was nothing, just a soldier, just a dog to the king. But he was everything at the same time. She would think about him at random times throughout her awful days in the Capitol and look for him at every opportunity. When she'd catch him looking her way, her insides would somersault. She hadn't known what it meant then, but it had made her feel dirty and wrong to think of him that way. Still, no matter how she would try, she could not remove the unwelcome thoughts from her mind.

There was one time in particular where they'd both been as bold as they'd ever dared. She'd visited the memory many nights over the last years, and had even changed the ending of the memory more times than one. It was on Joffrey's nameday, when she'd convinced the king to spare Ser Dontos' life and the Hound had supported her lie. That he would have dared to tell a straight lie to the king—he who prided himself in his blunt honesty—for her sake! It had made her pulse quicken and she'd thought of little else throughout the festivities of the evening.

Towards the end of the night she'd requested leave to retire to her room, cleverly waiting until Joffrey was absorbed in firing his crossbow at the unlucky rabbits which had been captured for his sport. He'd waved her away, and it was the Hound who had offered to walk her back to her room. When his eyes met hers she'd looked at her feet, and followed him meekly.

He had smelled of wine; Sansa knew he'd been enjoying the festivities for much of the evening. They had been silent on the walk to her room, but she had to say what she needed to say. As they approached her door she'd turned to him, "Clegane? I—I wanted to thank you for backing up my—my story today."

He'd sneered at her then, as he often did, the wine loosening his tongue. "It was a stupid thing to do. Your tender bird heart is going to get you killed one day, do you know that, girl?" She was standing in her open doorway, and he'd leaned against the frame, leering down at her. "Why should you have cared about what happened to that fat idiot?"

Sansa had tilted her chin up slightly in her defense and tried to stand her ground. "He didn't deserve to die just because he was drunk!" She'd grown bold then, "You're drunk!"

Sandor had glared at her, his eyes flashing. He'd grabbed her arm, pushing her into the room. "Am I drunk, girl?" Sansa was backed into the wall and his face had been inches from her own. He'd bit his bottom lip and cocked his head in a menacing way, "And what if I am? There's only three things I like doing: killing, drinking, and fucking." He'd pulled back for a moment, one hand still on her arm and the other on the wall above her head as his eyes roved her entire body lustily. "And I've already done the first two today."

She'd found courage, although she had not known where. She'd been hurt at his treatment of her when all she'd meant was kindness, but now anger took over. Her jaw clenched as she continued, "Your face looks like that because your brother is a monster and he found you playing with his toy." She'd stood up to her full height, boldly looking him in the eye. "What do you think Joffrey would do to you if he learned that you'd played with his favorite toy before he did?"

The rage that had burned in his eyes had given her a moment of regret at her harsh words. Still, he'd been asking for it. He'd clenched his hands, and growled at her, before stalking from her room angrily.

Now, years later as she went over the experience in her mind for perhaps the hundredth time, she wanted a new ending. She wanted Sandor, but since she could not have him, a new ending to the titillating memory would have to do. She slipped her nightdress over her head, the gooseflesh covering her body as her naked skin connected with the cool sheets. She closed her eyes and allowed her hands to roam her body, stopping at her breasts and between her legs. _Let's change how this happened._

 _He stepped inside and closed the door. "And what if I am? There's only three things I like doing: killing, drinking, and fucking. I've already done the first two today."_

 _Sansa's eyebrow raised at him, "And you're suggesting you'd like to do the fucking, is that it?"_

 _Sandor drew back, shocked to silence at what had come out of the mouth of sweet, stammering, helpless Sansa. She continued, "I've seen how you look at me."_

 _He recovered, the leer back in his eyes as he leaned forward menacingly, "And how do I look at you, little bird."_

 _She let her gaze fall to his lips coquettishly, and her voice lowered to little more than a whisper. "Like you want me." She slowly lifted her eyes back to his, "Which is not much different than how I look at you."_

 _His pulse quickened and he bit his lip, contemplating how to react. The halls were deserted, everyone still at the feast, but she was a lady, betrothed to the king. His hand moved to her waist and pulled her into him slightly, his teeth clenched as he restrained himself. Sansa saw him fighting an internal battle with duty and his desire._

 _"I'm not afraid of you, Sandor Clegane." She met his gaze unflinchingly, standing at her full height._

 _"Then you're stupid, do you have any idea what a man would do to you?" He was breathing heavily, looking down at the tops of her breasts as they rose and fell._

 _"Yes, but you're not like other men. You won't hurt me."_

 _He growled his sexual frustration and glanced at the door. His eyes returned to hers, then moved to rest on her lips. "Fuck it all." His mouth covered hers and he kissed her roughly, pressing her into the cold stone. She opened her mouth to his, allowing her tongue to explore, tasting the wine on him. He was rough, taking what he wanted from her, but Sansa found herself liking it. She felt a pulsing desire between her legs, and when his hands roamed through her hair as he devoured her she felt utterly breathless. He pulled her from the wall and shoved her in front of him toward the bed, pressing her onto it._

 _He looked down at her lying there, the little bird seducing him, and him falling headfirst for it. He wanted her more than he'd wanted anything in a very long time. His breath came hot and heavy and his head was spinning from the wine and the fury of his passion. His huge hands grasped the bodice of her silk gown and ripped it open, revealing her perfect breasts. She gasped, "My dress!"_

 _"Aye, your lovely little silk gown," he sneered as he ripped it further down her body. "I've seen this pretty body wearing a hundred more just like it. But I've never seen the pretty body without one." With a final tear she was naked, her ivory skin gleaming in the candlelight like porcelain. His eyes devoured her._

Sansa was breathing heavily and moaning softly, touching herself to the thoughts that she was creating. It had been a forbidden desire, the danger of being caught, and that thought excited her all the more. She was wet and desirous and close to her pleasure. Her fingers increased their pressure and intensity as she neared the climactic moment of her imagined memory.

 _Sandor grasped her breast in his hand and squeezed, burying his head in her neck. He bit down on her shoulder, enough to release some of his passion, but not enough to leave a mark. "What a pretty little bird you are. Perfect and untouched by any man." His hand moved down between her legs and his finger entered her, making her gasp and writhe. "Until me." He kissed her again as he moved his finger in and out, preparing her. When he added a second, she moaned in pleasure, pressing her hips into his movements._

 _She lifted her head up and whined softly, "I want you, Sandor Clegane. I want you inside me now." Her hands grasped at him. He pulled back and released his hard cock from his breeches, stroking it once before pressing it against her. She threw her head back as he slowly entered her, attempting to stifle her moans through clenched teeth. He filled her completely, fucking her before the king would ever have a chance to. She didn't know what would happen and she didn't care about anything except for how it felt to take him inside her._

"Ohhhh gods, yes!" Sansa's muscles tensed and released as the orgasm swept over her body, her breathing ragged. Her fingers were a poor substitute for him filling her, but she had satisfied her longing enough to allow sleep at least. Her pleasure spot became sensitive to the touch and it made her legs shake. She lay with her eyes closed, her breasts exposed from the bedcovers, and her hand between her legs as the pleasure slowly subsided. When she finally became oblivious to the world, only one person filled her dreams.

 **Alright y'all, if you're new to my story and you like it, let me know! I'll go GRRM style and pick one review from this chapter to model a new character after, then I'll kill them off. So let me know what you think, include a name (yours or not, doesn't matter) and you'll see them murdered in an upcoming chapter haha. :D**


	16. Chapter 16

**I want to shout out to Snapes-star for giving me the most incredible review ever! I love all your reviews but that one was so long and delicious and I grinned big at least 5 times while reading it. Don't worry, some of your desires will come true, and for the rest, you'll have to wait and see ;)  
I also wanted to mention that, although I do love the entire show and I'd love to do more justice to the other love stories Jon/Dany, Brienne/Jaime, Arya/Gendry, etc, this story is of course still SanSan so while we do see their love stories from a third person perspective, we're not going to have much private moments with those people. So if it seems like Jon/Dany got over their shit quickly, you have to imagine that they probably still are having quiet moments off screen to work through their drama. Lol! And we'll still visit it again as well. Thank you thank you thank you guys!**

 **Oh! Also I just got engaged the night before last so I'm kind of on a high :D We'll see if that's a good or bad thing translated to the page :P At any rate, that and my newly adopted pup has slowed my writing at least for a little while.**

Chapter 16

The two soldiers with their wise, yet incapacitated burden made slow progress through the thick growth of the old forest. There was an ancient feel which hung about the island. The trees were huge and gnarled, their limbs stretching upwards and fighting one another for access to the top of the canopy where sunshine could be reached. Moss and ferns carpeted the floor, along with hundreds and thousands of years of fallen leaves, each new layer burying the old—each old layer returning to the soil. The moisture in the place had softened the earth, allowing the men to move much more quietly through the forest than they would have thought possible. Their eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting and both men were on edge, ready for whatever might be waiting for them. The air was thick with old magic.

Before ten minutes had passed in this manner, Sandor saw a giant white form come into view beyond a cluster of trees. Even from this distance, it was unmistakably a weirwood tree; the white bark and blood-red leaves left no question. They moved toward it, cautiously, both with swords drawn and eyes scanning their surroundings. There were no woodland sounds. This was, perhaps, the strangest thing of all. It was as if every living thing on the island knew of the intruders, and the world had fallen silent. The only sound to be heard was Jorah's labored breathing, the blood rushing in Sandor's own ears, and the occasional twig snapping.

Sandor was half expecting some kind of ambush as they approached the weirwoods—for it was now clear that there was more than just one—and walked nearly backwards behind Jorah, guarding their backs. They reached the first great tree without incident, but Sandor's guard did not drop, and he stood prepared with his sword and obsidian dagger both drawn.

Bran's voice penetrated the still air, startling the men, and further illustrating just how silent the woods had been. "Jorah, let me down here, at the tree."

Jorah hesitated and looked about him, "This place is full of old magic. Are you certain we should unstrap you?" He eyed Sandor's ready stance and looked left and right in search of any signs of movement. "What if there is need to flee?"

Bran's voice was steady as always, "We are safe here, the Children will not harm me." Jorah briefly wondered whether that protection extended to himself and Sandor, but began to obey. He crouched and then sat back on the cool, moss carpet and unstrapped his burden. Sandor did not offer aid, preferring to have at least one man ready to fight if they should be happened upon.

"Help me out of the seat, Ser Jorah." Jorah released Bran's straps and held the device as Bran used his arms to pull himself free, crawling to the base of the tree. It was only then that Sandor noticed the face—a hideous open mouth, with deepset, angry eyes that wept blood. He looked about and saw that all of the trees had faces, each terrifying and ghastly in its own way. It was as if the old gods were watching them, angered by the intrusion into their sacred woods.

The faces had been carved millennia ago when the Children of the Forest and the First Men had made their pact for peace, united in the common cause of repelling the threat of the White Walkers. It was said that a warrior bearing a flaming sword called Lightbringer pushed back and defeated the Great Other, ending the Long Night. Of course, lots of shite was said to have happened, and Sandor wasn't exactly a devout believer.

He shifted uncomfortably, as he looked about him, the faces watching him from every angle. He hadn't been a believer of anything, once, but that was before he'd seen the vision in the flames, dead men walking, and dragons—before he bore witness to the crippled boy who was the possessor of a third eye, given the incredible ability to see into space and time. Now he didn't know what, exactly, or who he believed in, but he knew that he stood in the presence of some great power. He could feel it crawling under his skin, boring holes in the back of his head as the eyes of the Old Gods peered into his soul.

Jorah had stood and drew his own weapons, both men now watching the boy and each other's backs. Bran reached out a pale hand, placing it on the tree, and his eyes instantly rolled back into his head showing only white. His body twitched slightly and the travelers exchanged wary glances.

As the seconds crept on, both men grew increasingly uncomfortable. Every moment felt like an hour, and with Bran lost to the present circumstance, they felt somehow vulnerable—outsiders in a strange, lost world. The boy may have been welcome, but they, it seemed, were not. Jorah's skin glistened with sweat, his brows contracted in concern. His stance was loose and his head turned often, attempting to watch all of his sides at once. The wood felt as if it were closing in around them, the air itself suffocating them. Sandor fought to keep his hands from shaking—he might be fearless in the face of men, but this was different—supernatural. _Was_ there a humming or was that just his own ears betraying him?

Jorah felt it too. "Should we bring him back?" his gravelly voice sounded wrong in the silence—foreign. Sandor glanced down at Bran, then toward the great cluster of pale faces carved into the wood, the sap bleeding from every eye and mouth among them. It was so much white, they almost seemed to glow out of the green of the forest behind them. The green that seemed alive—moved even.

Sandor's stomach flipped inside of him. There was not a breath of wind, yet the green had moved. Then again to his right. He turned to Jorah, his eyes wide in alarm, and Jorah nodded, "I see it." The green crept stealthily around the sides of the weirwoods, and the men found themselves surrounded in a matter of moments by small, earthy figures, with piercing yellow-green eyes like reptiles. They carried myriad weapons, all of wood and twine and dragonglass. There were far too many of them to fight. Jorah and Sandor glanced at one another, then back to the oncoming crowd.

From their midst stepped a man, dressed similarly to the Children themselves, but with vestiges of clothing as well. His brown hair was long, but not unclean, his facial hair reaching to his chest in sandy-colored, tight kinks. He carried no weapons and wore no boots. He looked from the two men, over to Bran, and back to the men. Sandor saw Jorah shift beside him and he glanced to his left, where he saw the knight stand up to his full height, relaxing his sword arm. When he spoke, there was only a hint of question in his words, for he was almost certainly convinced both from appearance, and reputation, of who stood before them.

"Howland Reed."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Even from the height of her balcony, Tormund Giantsbane was unmistakable. His ruddy hair and beard were as wild as ever, and though he seemed thinner than before, somehow more worn, he was still Tormund. Jon was embracing him heartily, and the men slapped one another on the backs, mumbling words which she could not distinguish. With him were two other men, one who wore the blacks of the men of the Night's Watch, and another with a patch across his eye. He looked vaguely familiar, but Sansa could not determine where she'd seen him before from her vantage point. She moved away from the railing, heading toward the stairs to meet them in the courtyard.

Tormund seemed pleased to see her, taking her in a bear hug before Sansa could even decide whether such a thing was appropriate. "Lady Sansa, you look well!"

Sansa pulled back and gave him a genuine smile, for she liked the man, despite his wildness. "I am so pleased that you're alive, Tormund. We feared the worst when we learned of Eastwatch."

Jon cut in then, "How on earth did you get here? How did you get past the army of the dead?"

Tormund tilted his head to one side in acknowledgement of the miracle, "We travelled the top of the wall. When it fell, we were stuck, but closer to the top than the bottom. We climbed to the top and then walked to Castle Black." His slow, pronounced manner of speaking, combined with his intense way of focusing his eyes always made Sansa want to both laugh and fear him, she could never decide which. Although she was not personally afraid of Tormund, she understood the capable warrior he was, and the fear that would certainly strike the hearts of his enemies.

Jon was taken aback and responded with alacrity, "You _walked_ all that way on the wall? How—," he looked back and forth between Tormund and the other men, "how could you survive that, it would take days, and with no food or water?" Jon was incredulous.

Beric answered for Tormund, "It was not easy. We melted ice to drink and walked as long as we could, stopping only when absolutely necessary. We huddled together for warmth and used the fire that the Lord gives me." Beric had his usual positive outlook, despite what he described to be a harrowing experience." It took four days, and we lost one man, but the Lord of Light was merciful. He saw us through." Beric clapped Jon on the shoulder as he finished his narrative. "The Lord has done miracles much greater than this, yet still you are surprised by him?" He smiled at Jon in disbelief, shaking his head slightly.

Jon returned the smile, though not quite convinced, and introduced Beric to his sister. "Lord Beric, this is my sister, Sansa Stark."

Sansa curtsied politely, "I remember you from the capital, Lord Beric, yet you have changed much." She said it not unkindly.

"My lady, we have all changed much," he glanced at Jon as he said it, then back to her. "We are grateful for your hospitality."

"Yes of course, please, you must be exhausted." She called for a servant to see to the men's sleeping arrangements. "When you are rested, please join us in the great hall for supper." She smiled and inclined her head before taking her leave.

Though Sansa was no longer charged with ruling in the North now that Jon and Daenerys had returned, still, as lady of Winterfell she was the head of the household and the castle. Winterfell was currently a military base of sorts for the Queen and her men, but it was still Sansa's home and much was required of her in the way of organization and management. Now, with tens of thousands of troops and smallfolk, there was always business to discuss and appointments to make. She made her way to speak with the steward, where several afternoon hours were consumed.

The sun had already set by the time she was finished with her business for the day, and after freshening up in her room, she proceeded to the great hall for supper.

Sansa pushed through the great oaken doors and immediately was greeted with laughter and boisterous storytelling coming from the long table at the front of the hall. Her appointments had caused her to be later than usual, and she was one of the last of the lords, ladies, council members, and friends to join for supper. In honor of the safe return of Tormund and Beric, Jon had called for a celebratory meal. It was nothing very large or extravagant, yet any gathering which was centered on lighthearted affairs was a welcome change from the war plans and council meetings which had been the recent norm at Winterfell.

Daenerys was seated at the center of the long table, with Tyrion on her left and Jon on her right. The other council members, lords and ladies were seated all along its length. There were more important people all in one place than Sansa had seen in a very long time. Some were important through birth or station, others because the world in which they now found themselves called for different kinds of leaders. Beyond their long table, the hall was filled to bursting with fighting men at supper, servants and smallfolk milling about between them.

As she approached the table, she felt a sudden pang of longing for her husband. That he could not be here with them to join in this calm before the storm, sharing a laugh and a mug of ale with friends made her heart ache. He had left the day before in the afternoon, and she had visited the heart tree last night to beg the old gods for his safe return with her brother.

Arya pulled her out of her own thoughts by shouting at her to come and join the merry party, which she did at once. Anything which would take her thoughts off of her anxiety for Sandor was a welcome distraction. Arya was seated two places to the right of Jon, and motioned for Sansa to take the empty chair between them. Sansa was pleased to see her sister's friendly eyes and customary impish grin, for she had not been in her company since the day before.

The lady of Winterfell greeted those around her with a welcoming smile as she took her seat. Under normal circumstances, there would be a more proper seating arrangement as befit the stations of each guest, but tonight lords and ladies sat with onion knights and eunuchs and wildlings. There was no great distinction—aside from the Queen, and her hand, and Jon and Sansa as the heads of Winterfell—for all were possessors of breath in their lungs and blood in their veins which united them as equals in the war for the living. The great quantities of ale and wine helped to blur the lines as well.

As she started into the first course, Sansa tried to suppress her amusement at the great discomfort which Brienne had found herself in upon the arrival of Tormund. It was no secret that the wildling was attracted to her—certainly he made no attempt to conceal it—but Brienne was still the honor-driven and ultimately very awkward lady-warrior who could not yet decide how to handle the attention. She was seated next to Arya, across from Tormund, which was undoubtedly by design. The wildling was drinking raucously and pounding Gendry good-naturedly, both engrossed in tales of the journey beyond the wall and the time after their return to Eastwatch during Gendry's recovery. It was clear that Tormund was only half-interested in his conversation, however, for every few moments his wide-eyed stare—which Sansa could only describe as penetrating (if not downright lecherous)—was turned on Brienne, and a half grin would draw his fiery beard up one side of his face.

Gendry seemed to be putting up with Tormund's well-meaning abuse of his back and shoulders quite cheerfully, which may or may not have been easier due to his being seated directly across from Arya. He looked at her often and with a baseborn ignorance of the impropriety of revealing his attraction to a lady. Sansa supposed it was not far different than how Sandor had looked at her, and could not fault them for the unsuitable nature of the match—he so far below her station. The absurdity of their whole situation hit Sansa suddenly then, and she nearly laughed out loud as the servant heaped the steaming pork onto her plate. That so many of them should be driven to love or lust just in the moment that the world seemed to be ending felt somehow both completely absurd and completely logical. After all, what better time to pursue the desires of one's heart than when the threat of death looms overhead? Even Jon and Dany had given in to it.

She turned her attention to them as she continued her meal. Certainly, they both seemed to be resigned to the separation that Jon had deemed necessary after the revelation of his parentage. There had been no further discussion on the topic, at least, that she was aware of. Yet now as Sansa looked more closely, she thought that some of the light had gone out of Daenerys' expression. She reflected back to the night of her wedding, when the other woman had come to her with her sweet gift, and how happy she had seemed. Perhaps she had been imagining that her own wedding would follow soon after, and Sansa, therefore, would become her sister by marriage. And now, as Sansa reflected, that hope had been crushed, and she thought she could see its loss on the face of her Queen. Her smiles were less ready, her speech less friendly and open.

Jon was in conversation with Davos, who sat across from him, and Sansa realized he had a similar look about him. There was the strain of responsibility to protect his people from the approaching threat, but there was more than that too. There was a pain of loss in his expression which had not been there before. She could not blame him or Dany; they were young, yet had felt the bitter pain of losing a love, while still having to face it daily. Sansa could not imagine a more difficult situation for the heart to be in. Life could sometimes be very cruel.

Yet, despite all the suffering that life had put her through, despite the pain which had touched her loved ones' lives as well as her own, she could not help but feel grateful in that moment. She had wed the man she had always loved (even before she'd known it was love), had reunited with her family in their home, and was surrounded by friends. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, but for now she was grateful for life and for the hope that it represented. _Hope for my love, for Sandor to return to me._ She looked back at Arya and Gendry, at Tormund and Brienne. _Hope for love, even if there is but little chance of it._ She smiled despite herself and turned her gaze back to Dany and Jon. _And hope for love, even if it does not take the shape that we had once dreamed._

And as the merry party in the great hall of Winterfell drank and laughed and told their stories, hope approached their gates in the form of a broken man. Hope of redemption, in the sight of gods and men. _Hope_ , thought Jaime Lannister as he shouted his purpose to the guards, _to reclaim the honor that I had lost._


	17. Chapter 17

**In order to provide changing perspectives, we're jumping between the party at the Isle of the Faces and Winterfell, but this next scene is actually just a continuation of the one in the last chapter, so it's taking place the day before the dinner at Winterfell. We're going to stay with them until they catch back up to the others. Timelines, ugh. :P**

Chapter 17

The man Jorah identified as Howland Reed stepped toward them and nodded slightly. Jorah continued, "I remember. From the tournament at Harrenhal. Although," he looked the man up and down, "You have changed a great deal since that time."

Howland cracked a smile and almost chuckled. "I have. And you are Jorah Mormont," Howland inclined his head before looking at Sandor. "By the looks of your friend I would guess this is the Hound?"

Jorah gestured to Sandor, "Yes, Sandor Clegane." Howland nodded again and Sandor just looked gruff as usual. Jorah continued, looking back toward Bran, "We have come as an escort for Lord Bran—"

Howland finished for him, "Brandon Stark, the three-eyed-raven. Yes, we knew he would be coming." For the first time, Howland referred to the group of creatures surrounding him. "These are the last of the race known as the Children of the Forest."

While curious, Jorah and Sandor did not really know how to interact with non-humans, and both felt rather uncomfortable. It was Sandor who spoke, "How the bloody hell have they been living here all this time, smack in the center of the country, and have never been seen before?" He gestured at them with his sword while he spoke, although not in a threatening manner. Still, some of the Children stepped back apprehensively.

Howland responded, "My friend, they do not take well to your steel, for the Children only use weapons of dragonglass." He looked at Sandor's dagger with a curious expression. "Which, I see, you have found use of as well. Good." Howland looked to the Children knowingly, then back to Sandor. "To answer your question, they _have_ been seen before, but the world believes only that which makes it more comfortable. Even before myself, there have been men through the ages who have ventured to this island and returned with tales. Many of my own ancestors even intermarried with the Children." He glanced in the direction of Bran, "Which is how myself and my son Jojen came to possess the gift of greensight." He looked back to the men. "Still, men believe what they have seen with their own eyes, and little else. Stories which complicate the world we live in are not welcome by lords and kings, comfortable in their castles."

Jorah nodded knowingly, "That is very true, my friend. I don't know that I would have ever believed all the things that I have seen if I had not witnessed them with my own eyes."

Howland gestured toward Bran, "And our raven is witnessing many things with a thousand eyes as we speak. The Isle possess many secrets and histories which are inaccessible beyond its shores, even to one with his sight." He looked around at the grove of weirwoods, "Do you know what a weirwood tree is?" He addressed the question to both, and to neither at the same time. It was almost rhetorical.

The men looked at each other, expecting some riddle. Jorah put his chin up a bit and answered the obvious, "They are a tree believed to possess the spirits of the Old Gods. The Gods introduced to the First Men, by the Children." He looked at the Children as he said it, feeling suddenly as if he were a child asked to explain something to an old man.

Howland nodded. "Yes, that is the very base description of the weirwood, yet they are much more than that." He looked at the tree which Bran was lying beside. "The trees store the memories of every man, Child, or beast which it consumes, either through its blood or flesh. The bodies which are put in the earth after they die become a part of the tree. And so the history of the Children, all of their culture and knowledge is stored inside of the weirwoods. Some who possess the gift," he looked at Bran as he said it, "can then access these histories and see into the past and present through their faces."

Jorah looked at Sandor who grimaced and said, "Fucking weird." Howland regarded Sandor with a hint of curiosity in his expression, but did not say anything in response. His attention returned to Bran who was now coming back to the present.

Bran sat up and looked immediately at the crannogman. "Howland Reed," he breathed, and then looked beyond at the Children of the Forest who were still standing behind him. There was a sorrow in his expression. "I'm so sorry," he said in a quiet voice.

Jorah looked concerned and approached Bran, crouching down to his level, "Are you all right? What did you see?"

Bran continued to gaze with longing and sorrow at the Children for a few long moments. Then he turned back to Jorah, "We must leave here at once."

"Leave? Now?" Jorah looked confused. "We've only just come, and you haven't spoken yet with the Children." He looked at Sandor, perplexed.

Bran remained calm, yet seemed to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders. "I have spoken to them, to hundreds and thousands of their minds in the tree. They have known I was coming for a long time, for many years." Bran looked to Howland who showed no surprise, and nodded, seeming somewhat resigned. Bran looked back to Jorah and then Sandor, "They called me here, knowing that it was the only hope for the future of Westeros. And knowing that it would be the end of them."

Sandor growled, "What do you mean it'll be the end of them?" He glanced sideways at the Children, nervously.

It was Howland, however, who responded, "The Night King and his army cannot cross over water, it is one of the protections that the Children put in place when he was created. He is also prevented access to this island through ancient spells and magic. It has long been his desire and purpose to seek revenge upon the Children for his creation. He already destroyed the outpost where Bloodraven lived beyond the wall which he accessed through the mark that he placed upon Brandon Stark." Howland took a deep breath and stood straighter. "With the dragon he flies, he is now able to cross the water. And since Bran has set foot on the island, the same mark which gave him access to Bloodraven's cave will now allow him to land here." The man looked at Bran, then from Sandor back to Jorah. "He also possesses the greensight. He knows you are here, and he is coming."

Sandor grimaced, Bran was resigned, and Jorah was aghast. "But, what of yourselves? What of the Children?" He looked back down at Bran. "What was the purpose of coming here if only to doom them to destruction?"

One of the Children spoke then, for the first time since the meeting had begun. He stepped forward a bit from the others; in his hand a long-shafted spear with a dragonglass tip. His voice was deep and earthy. "Our kind created the Night King thousands of years ago. It was through our mistake that the Others came into this world. We have always known there would be a reckoning. We are prepared." He looked down at Bran then, "Now you know what is needed to defeat him. You will take two of our own with you," He gestured behind him where two of the Children stepped forward, a male and female. They appeared younger than the others, although it was difficult to be sure. "If we should fall here, they will be the last hope for our people." He looked at the two men, then back to Bran. "You must go now. You know what to do."

Bran nodded sadly at the Child who had spoken, his eyes closing slowly, before opening them again and inclining his head to Howland Reed. Then he disappeared into the dragon's mind.

Sandor began removing the pieces of Jorah's armor, "I'll carry him, he's too much for you on the dragon." Jorah nodded, and they moved with urgency, putting Bran's body back into the pack, and strapping him on Sandor. Jorah quickly donned his armor again, and when they were ready, they looked to Howland.

"You must come with us," Jorah beckoned to him, "leave this place."

Howland shook his head, "No, my friend. I have been ready for this moment for many years." He gestured to Bran, "He is the only thing that matters. You must keep him safe. Go now." He placed a hand on each shoulder of the two Children who had been chosen to go with Bran, jerked his head once in farewell, and pushed them in the direction of the others. "Quickly!"

In much less time than it had taken them to come to the weirwood grove, the three travelers and their new companions reached the edge of the wood where Rhaegal had already alighted precariously upon the rock outcropping. They scrambled onto the beast as quickly as possible, the anxiety rising with each moment. Jorah, who climbed on last, had only barely reached the crest of Rhaegal's back before he stretched his great wings and took to the air. The island rushed away from them, as the dragon climbed, and in a few moments which felt like an eternity, they had nearly crossed the God's Eye. The Isle of Faces became a distant, green mound behind them, surrounded on every side by water and an air of foreboding.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took only a few minutes of flight for Sandor to realize something was wrong. By now, the sun had nearly set, yet instead of seeing it on their left as they flew north to Winterfell, the sunset was to their right.

He frowned, yet didn't know what could be done. Bran was inaccessible while inside the dragon. If they were not heading to Winterfell, then it must be due to something the lad had seen in his visions. Sandor scowled. He'd been pleased at the prospect of returning home the same day as he'd left his lady, yet now it appeared that would not come to pass. He could only hope that wherever their new destination was, that their business there would not take long. He could not even hope to discuss it with Jorah for turning around was nearly impossible, and even if he could manage it, his speech would be lost in the wind. He had little hope then, but to wait and see where the dragon would take them.

Sandor's thoughts turned home to Sansa. He imagined what she was doing now. She'd probably be eating her supper, or maybe even crawling into her tub already. He smiled despite himself as he thought of her obsessive need to be clean and smell beautiful at all times. Not that he minded in the least; the very thought of her naked caused a stirring in his breeches until he willed himself to turn his thoughts elsewhere. This was not the time, nor place for such wanton reveries. Even though his brother-in-law was in the mind of the dragon, he still felt that the boy would know, being in such close proximity to him. The very thought made him uncomfortable, so instead he speculated on what Bran might have seen in the memories of the weirwoods. Hopefully it would hold the key to winning the great war to come.

Sandor had no idea how much time had passed, but it had long since grown dark and his back had begun to ache again. He inhaled a deep breath, letting it out in an exhausted sigh. He knitted his brows and sniffed. "The sea," he muttered to himself. "Where the fuck are we going?" He growled in frustration, hoping for nothing more than to get off this wretched beast and know what the hell was going on.

With a frown, Sandor realized that a star which had been low on the horizon for some time, was in fact, not a star, but a light. It had grown steadily larger and closer, although it still seemed to be set very high off the ground on some great tower. They soared lower until Sandor could make out more small lights; there was a city beneath them, and the sea was on their right. The large tower which held the light he had seen loomed ahead of them, until they were circling it.

Before Sandor could determine where they were, they were alighting on a great courtyard, Rhaegal's wings scattering dust and leaves about them. In the distance he heard shouts and cries, likely some fools who'd seen the dragon and were in a panic. In the next moment, Rhaegal's great legs touched down, and his wings pounded into the earth to support his upper body. He roared long and loudly.

More cries and screams sounded, followed by a scuffling behind the great doors ahead of them. Men were shouting, although Sandor could not hear what they said. Suddenly Bran's voice was in his ears, "Climb down, we are going inside. All of us."

Sandor did as he was bid, not even bothering to try to figure out what was going on. The boy would explain eventually, or maybe he wouldn't. It didn't matter to him so long as he could get off the wretched beast and get the damn burden off of his back. He heard Jorah going down first, and then he worked his way off the scaled neck with the knight's help to support Bran. The Children had climbed down as well, and Sandor got a good, close look at them for the first time. The one who seemed to be male had eyes as green as a blade of grass, and the female's were similar yet slightly yellower. Both of the creatures had what seemed to be sticks and moss in their hair—if it could be called hair—and wore strange coverings made of leaves. But now he looked beyond them as the great doors of the tower were being opened, light spilling from behind them into the dark courtyard where the unwelcome party waited.

A group of robed men peered cautiously from behind the door, muttering exclamations and whispering to each other. Rhaegal roared again, causing some of the men to cower, and one to collapse completely, before he shot back into the sky, disappearing over the water.

After a few moments, one of the men regained his composure and shouted to them, "What is the meaning of this! Who are you?"

Bran spoke softly in Sandor's ear, "Go to them."

Sandor went without response, the others following, until he could see that the men who stood before them appeared to be maesters. He looked up at the great building and the realization dawned on him. They were at the Citadel, in Oldtown. He climbed the steps with his burden and only stopped when he was mere feet from the men, all of whom looked as if they'd seen ghosts, and were cowering from his person.

Bran spoke then, in a louder and more commanding tone than Sandor had ever heard him use, and he was taken aback momentarily. "Archmaester!" he nearly shouted. The men looked at him, at the Children with him, and then at each other, completely confounded. An old man slowly emerged from behind a few others, his eyes wide as saucers. Bran did not wait for him to confirm his identity; he already knew which one he was. "I understand you were waiting on clarification from Maester Wolkan at Winterfell as to the truth behind my vision of the dead." The archmaester and his fellow scholars were as flabbergasted as men in their circumstances could be expected to be. How could the boy have known of their private discussions? Perhaps Samwell Tarly? The old maester attempted to stammer out an explanation.

Bran seemed to have left his patience and courtesy at the Isle, for he spoke with such authority and commanding presence that the archmaester's mouth clamped shut again and he stared in shocked silence. "You will find accommodations for myself and the others for the night, but first we will speak immediately. Show us to your council room."

Ebrose frowned and considered briefly, before he finally nodded. He looked almost ashamed of himself and he motioned to another man to prepare suitable sleeping arrangements. Then he glanced back toward Bran before turning and striding through the doors to accommodate the crippled boy's demand. Sandor followed, along with Jorah and the Children, and finally the other robed men who fell into step behind them.

When they arrived at the council room, Jorah helped Sandor remove Bran and seat him at the head of a long table. Sandor stretched his bones and cracked his neck, "Fuck me, that thing's a pain." He tossed the pack aside, before turning back to the stunned faces which were regarding him momentarily with disgust. "The fuck are you lot looking at?" He growled at them, before collapsing in a chair next to Bran, exhausted. The maesters looked at each other, then at the Children uncomfortably, before awkwardly finding their seats.

Bran wasted no time, "I can assure you, archmaester, that the Night King is not only past the wall—which has fallen as my sister informed you recently by raven—but is currently flying his dead dragon and laying waste to the Isle of Faces on the God's Eye." He paused for effect, and was rewarded by the utter shock in their faces which appeared to be trying to process his information. "The Isle was the last stronghold of the Children of the Forest whom you so recently believed to be merely the subjects of stories." Bran nodded in the direction of the Children. "Perhaps they are not so amusing in person?" The men blanched, disconcerted that somehow this boy seemed to be aware of everything which was discussed in the supposed privacy of their councils.

Bran folded his hands and seemed to calm slightly, "Tomorrow, after we are all rested, we will discuss what I have seen on the Isle of Faces, and beyond the wall. We will eradicate any further doubts which any of you may still have about the claims I have made, and we will develop a plan for survival," Bran trained his eyes on the archmaester. "You once told Samwell Tarly that the wall has stood through it all, and that every winter that ever came has ended." The archmaester gaped at him for a moment, before regaining his composure. Bran continued, "Now the wall has fallen, yet we must still work together to ensure that this winter _does_ end. The Seven Kingdoms rely on your knowledge and authority, as Samwell once told you. We need your cooperation to save Westeros. Time is running out."

Ebrose looked at his fellows before turning back to Bran and nodding solemnly. "I understand, Lord Stark. Forgive me, we will do everything we can to assist you."

Bran nodded back at him, his face relaxing. "Thank you, archmaester. We will convene again at first light."

 **I know that this is straying a bit from just SanSan romance, but heck, I wanted to try my hand at finishing this story so that Sandor and Sansa could have a future together or end tragically as Romeo and Juliet. You'll just have to wait and see ;) Thank you as always for the reviews and follows!**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

It was nearly sundown the following day when the three-eyed-raven and his companions finally took to the skies, leaving the Citadel behind them. The greater part of the day had been spent in meeting with the maesters, poring over old manuscripts, revealing the things which Bran had seen on the Isle of Faces, and developing a plan. The maesters would be sending ravens to every house in Westeros telling of the arrival of the Night King and beseeching all fighting men to either move North to join the great war, or to assist in removing the people of the country to islands or further south.

Having seen the meeting in King's Landing with Cersei and her subsequent treachery in his visions, Bran commanded that all of the houses of Westeros, great or small, should be informed of her treachery and refuse to stand with the false queen. All those who would heed their counsel would be under the protection of the Queen Daenerys following the war for the living. They would be prepared for the advance of the Night King, unlike Cersei who was choosing to ignore the threat. The maesters of the Citadel may not have true political authority, still their public rejection of Cersei would certainly bear great weight among the lords and ladies of Westeros, who held the Citadel and the order of the maesters in high esteem.

The journey back to Winterfell on the dragon was uneventful, aside from seeing the Dothraki again on the Kingsroad so close to Winterfell that they would likely be upon it in the morning. Jaime Lannister had just been permitted entry into the castle and was moving into the courtyard, when Rhaegal alighted just outside the gates. The weight of his landing startled Jaime and the guards who flung their heads around in surprise. As the riders were climbing off, Rhaegal's earsplitting roar alerted the entire castle of their arrival. In a few moments, the great doors of the hall burst open, allowing both light and people to spill beyond them into the snow-covered courtyard. The scene which followed was one of such confusion that it became the subject of many a drunken conversation in the years after by those who had experienced it.

The majority of the occupants of the long table who had been at dinner pushed their way into the courtyard, drawing back abruptly at the sight of the Kingslayer. The Kingslayer, who had wheeled around in the direction of the dragon upon hearing its roar, stood gaping at the two Children of the Forest who accompanied Bran, Sandor and Jorah, all of whom were striding into the yard. The occupants of the table, especially Lord Tyrion, joined in the gawking of the Children, yet were equally flabbergasted at Jaime's presence, as were Jorah and Sandor. Indeed, the only person in the party who did not appear to be entirely at a loss for words was Bran, who of course had known what to expect.

It was Jaime's satirical drawl which broke the silence, "Well, I'd heard there was a party, and I couldn't bear to miss it." He gestured toward the hall with his golden hand, and then turned to look at the new arrivals. "Although it would appear that everyone was invited except for me."

Brienne stepped forward, the shock written across her broad face, "Ser Jaime? Why on earth have you come here?" She colored a bit as she realized how rude her comment sounded, and she clearly had not meant it in such a way.

"Lady Brienne, are you so displeased to see me? I assure you, once you hear why I have come, you will be welcoming me with arms open." Brienne's awkwardness increased as Jaime misrepresented her intention, but it was Tormund who responded. He looked much wilder than any had seen him in some time.

"You're a pretty man." He sized Jaime up and down as he approached him, emboldened by his ale and the jealousy which had been stirred at the knight's conversation with Brienne. "You smell of the south, and Winter is coming. Perhaps you best run back to your pretty castle." He cocked his head, now nearly chest to chest with the Kingslayer. "Wouldn't want to see that pretty face turned into a rotting, blue-eyed corpse."

Jaime squinted at him before responding rather brusquely, "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are, and I'm not sure what I've done to offend you aside from combing my hair and possessing superior genes." He did not recoil in the slightest by the burly redhead. "Perhaps I _should_ just head back to King's Landing where Cersei plans to go back on her oath and reclaim the land which your Queen has conquered." He looked toward Daenerys for effect, "Might I borrow one of your flying beasts for the ride home? I just traversed that journey by horse and, frankly, we're both exhausted."

Daenerys stepped forward, her anger suddenly flaring, "Cersei has done what?!" She clenched her jaw and glared toward Tyrion, before training her eyes back on Jaime. "Are you saying that your sister lied to me?!"

"Your grace." The words came from above Sandor's head, from Bran's clear, calm voice. "Perhaps we can all move out of the snow and discuss. I have to acquaint you with what has happened on the Isle, and what I have already accomplished in regards to Cersei's treachery."

Jaime turned, noticing Bran for perhaps the first time, and his countenance changed, although most would not have recognized it. A flash of shame crossed his face momentarily; he swallowed before nodding his agreement at the suggestion. Daenerys clenched her fists, yet even she could see that standing and shouting in the snow would accomplish nothing. She turned on her heel and stalked toward the hall, "I will await you in the council chamber. Please join me after your meal." Her sentence called over her shoulder sounded like anything but a request.

A servant hurried forward with Bran's chair, and he and Jorah began to assist in removing Bran from Sandor's back. The moment he was free, Sandor strode to his wife who had been standing next to Arya and Jon, taking in the events, and snatched her into his arms, burying his face in her neck. Sansa threw her own arms around his shoulders and closed her eyes as she embraced him, reveling in the feeling of being in his arms once more.

Jaime drew up with a start upon seeing the embrace, turning his head quickly to look for signs of surprise from his companions. Finding none, he paused and glanced down at his brother who had been watching him, amused, and waiting for a reaction. Tyrion grinned and Jaime raised one brow at him, "What _have_ you all been doing up here?" He asked under his breath so as not to be heard by anyone but Tyrion. "Everyone seems to have gone madder than Aerys himself." He gestured at the unlikely couple, now moving together into the great hall ahead of them, "What the fuck was that?"

Tyrion waddled beside him as they continued toward the hall after the others. He tilted his head, "Well, she _was_ married to the ugliest man alive, followed by the cruelest. It would appear she's decided to settle for somewhere in between?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Still, I would kill to have a moment of their happiness. They are truly in love. Such a thing is more precious than gold at a time like now when the world is falling to shit."

Jaime looked toward Brienne involuntarily at Tyrion's words. She turned slightly and looked at him in the same moment, her brows knitted. When she caught his gaze, she looked forward again and walked quickly through the great doors. Jaime looked down at his golden hand, and then drew up straighter. "Love is nothing but pain in the end, brother. Surely you've learned that by now."

The dwarf glanced up at Jaime, knowing what it had cost his older brother to abandon their sister. He smiled sadly. Tyrion realized that he had never loved the man more than he did in that moment.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After the travelers had been fed, everyone gathered in the council room and was seated around the long table. Bran had called all those in a position of leadership including the lords bannermen and the maesters, for what he was going to share required an audience and he did not wish to have it repeated falsely from one mouth to another. The Children had attended as well, and were seated near Bran, drawing more than a few stares from the crowd.

Bran began, "My lords and ladies, warriors and maesters. My queen," He inclined his head at Dany. "I have been to the Isle of Faces and after to the Citadel at Oldtown. We returned with two of the kind known as the Children of the Forest. Their last stronghold on the Isle was attacked by the Night King shortly after we fled, and these two may be the last of their kind." He looked solemnly at the faces listening intently, "As you know, I have the greensight which enables me to see through the eyes and memories of the weirwood trees. The trees on the Isle were before inaccessible to me, yet now I have seen, and now I will share what I have learned with all of you."

"Thousands of years ago, during the Long Night, a great warrior helped to push back the Night King far north to the Lands of Always Winter. The Night King was not killed, for the Children wished to allow him instead to remain living, yet bound by great enchantments to prevent his returning south again. They had created him, and there was a guilt they carried which they had tried to assuage by sparing his life. The Children used their magic to create spells in the wall when it was raised shortly after, and a myriad of enchantments protecting both men and the Children from another attack by the White Walkers."

"This protection lasted for thousands of years. It was not until about 45 years ago that their great enchantments were broken. It happened quite by accident, during the events at Summerhall. Aegon V was obsessed with bringing back dragons, and had dabbled in powers and sorcery which he did not understand. Almost all who attended were burned as the hall went up in flames of wildfire. This was where Rhaegar Targaryen was born, outside under the stars as the hall burned. Rhaegar Targaryen, we have since learned, is the true father of Jon Snow, whose mother is Lyanna Stark. While some of us have known this for some time, we had not wanted to share the truth of it right away to the world, yet now it is unavoidable." Several faces of those who had not been privy to the information prior were stunned at the revelation, especially Jaime Lannister.

Bran continued without pause for questions or exclamations, "The sorcery which Aegon unknowingly dabbled in caused a rebirth of some magic and a breaking of old enchantments. The Children of the Forest knew immediately what had occurred and wasted no time in planning for the inevitable resurgence of the Night King. They needed a warrior, one who would become the Prince who was Promised, the legendary Azor Ahai reborn to wield Lightbringer and rid the world of the evil of the Night King for good. The warrior must bring balance. He must be from the line which had renewed this magic by way of sorcery, the Targaryens, yet also of the blood of the First Men, which would remember the old pact and the Night King who was created of them. Thus a great plan was hatched to bring forth this warrior by uniting a Targaryen with a Stark."

"While all of this was occurring, the Night King was gathering the male child offerings of Craster to begin raising his own army of White Walkers. He cannot turn men unwillingly into his kind; they must be given as sacrifice. Thus Craster fed his army and the Night King bided his time, preparing. His ultimate goal was to wipe out the Children who had created him, and then subjected him to the hellish life which he must lead, impervious to death. The Night King cannot die by any means but one, for although his creations, the Walkers, are vulnerable to dragonglass and Valyrian steel, he is not. This was an unexpected complication which the Children quickly discovered. He, unlike the walkers, was created during an ancient ritual which involved obsidian pressed into his heart, and because it remains there to this day, he is immune to its power."

"Because he cannot die, and has existed in a state of turmoil, turned against his will into a monster, he has only one desire: revenge. He seeks revenge on the Children for creating him and on the First Men for turning their backs on him who had been one of their own. He created his army and planned everything which would enable him to pass the wall, including the capture of one of Daenerys' dragons. He has powerful greensight and is aware of much that is going on in our world."

"Daenerys' dragons, some have thought, were the force which brought magic back into the world, yet truly it was the events at Summerhall which began the process. The birth of the dragons increased the magic in the world, and they were surely born at this time to be of use in the fight for the living. There are others who will be used as well, but none so much as Jon, whose true name is Aegon Targaryen, for he is the Prince who was Promised. His birth was planned by the Children, and they were aided by their own ambassador, their connection to the world of men. Howland Reed."

"Howland visited the Isle of Faces many years ago and was privy to the plan to bring forth this prince. The magic of the Children, which is greatly over nature, enabled a false spring to occur, driving the lords and ladies from their castles in celebration with a great tournament. The tournament's location at Harrenhal was also by the design of the Children, for their magic was greater in closer vicinity. Howland went to the tournament and schemed to bring Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen together in love."

"This proved to be easier than he had hoped, for Lyanna's great heart and skilll drove her to fight masked in the tournament against the knights whose squires had bullied young Howland the day before. King Aerys was furious, fearing the knight to be one of his enemies, and demanded that Rhaegar find and kill him. Rhaegar did find the knight, discovering him to be Lyanna, and he fell in love. Lyanna herself had already begun to fall for Rhaegar after he'd made her weep with one of his songs. They eloped, and their child, the child of ice and fire, was the Prince that was Promised."

"My father, Ned Stark, protected the secret of Jon's birth from Robert who would have had him killed. Howland himself was with my father at the Tower of Joy when Jon was discovered. He bore witness to the safe arrival of the Prince into the world and ensured that Ned would be able to care for the boy until he was grown. My father then raised Jon as his own bastard son. All of the events that have happened were necessary to bring us to this point. When Jaime pushed me from the window, I was able to truly begin to transition to the three-eyed-raven." Jaime looked at a knot in the wood of the table. Bran did not seem to notice. "Howland sent his children to help bring me beyond the wall so that I could become the raven. Jon was raised from the dead because his purpose is to conquer death."

"And now, Jon, your destiny is truly before you. You must wield Lightbringer, the original sword which was used against the Night King thousands of years ago, the only weapon with power over him. You are our only chance of victory against his army." Jon was not meeting Bran's eyes, but Bran continued to the rest of the council. "The Night King knows of the prophecy, he knows that Jon has been created with the design to kill him, and this is why even now he marches on Winterfell. He needed to wait for me to allow him access to the Isle where he could have his revenge on the Children, and now he will come for Jon. He will be here very soon, for he has already laid waste to the Last Hearth and Karhold, and is nearing Winterfell."

"As for Cersei, she has hired the Golden Company to sail with Euron from Essos to fight for her here. I have traveled to the Citadel to acquaint the maesters with my knowledge. They have agreed to support Daenerys as the rightful queen and have urged all of the houses to stand with us against the threat of the Night King and to reject Cersei's right to rule. They, at least, will not take up arms with her against us."

Bran paused and the room sat in silence, trying to process the great load of information which had been piled on them all at once. No one bothered to question or attempted to contradict Bran's information. It was true, they knew, and no one felt the weight of it more than Jon. He sat silently with his forehead resting on his hands, his face directed at the table.

Finally Daenerys broke the silence. She was pale yet attempted to speak with authority, "My dragons and my armies will stay and help to defeat the Night King. We will do all in our power to ensure that he is destroyed." She swallowed hard, looking down at her hands, before speaking again. "Still, if what you say is true, Cersei will soon be at our backs to crush us from behind while we fight for the living. Are we to just wait to be captured between two armies?" The very thought of it struck most of the room with the madness and utter selfishness of Cersei Lannister.

"I will kill Cersei." Arya spoke coolly, her hands folded in front of her, her face as calm as if she'd announced that she'd like to go to bed. Some of the men laughed, including Jaime who smiled patronizingly at her and said, "My dear girl, my sister would love nothing more than to have you in her grasp, she has wanted you dead ever since you slipped from her fingers in King's Landing. Killing her will be no easy task."

Tyrion looked up at his brother knowingly, and then back at Arya, who had cocked her head at Jaime's comment, her face still devoid of emotion. "Jaime," he began, with a nervous chuckle, "Perhaps it is time we acquainted you with young Lady Stark's new profession. Arya is an assassin of the Faceless Men."

Jaime glanced quickly back at Arya in surprise, but was clearly not convinced. "The Faceless Men?" He paused and then chuckled a little. "You're saying this little girl is a trained assassin?"

Sansa spoke then, her voice cold and clear. "This little girl single handedly destroyed the entire house of Frey. You remember the Freys, Lord Jaime?" The bitterness was in her voice, her eyes like ice.

Jaime swallowed and looked down at his hands before responding, "My lady, we all here have been on opposite sides of the war at one time. We are here to fight together now."

Sansa continued, not flinching. "We are. You should be grateful of that. I have seen my sister kill. She has bested Brienne in the training yard." Jaime looked quickly at Brienne for the truth of Sansa's words and found no denial written there. Sansa continued, "If anyone has a chance of getting near Cersei, it is Arya who can wear another man's face." Sansa turned to Daenerys, "Why not let her try? We are all endangered here and we cannot spare an army to deal with Cersei. Let us send an assassin instead."

Dany looked to her councilors for their opinions on the matter before finally turning back to Sansa, "Very well." She nodded at Arya and the room grew quiet again.

This time it was Davos who broke the silence. "My Lord Bran, forgive me, but you said that Jon would wield a sword called Lightbringer to defeat the Night King. When the false king, Stannis, was named the Prince that was Promised by the red woman, he pulled a flaming sword from the fire." Davos shook his head in remembrance. "Even a fool like me could see that it was nothing more than a mummer's trick. Yet if there truly is a sword which can defeat the Night King, it would be helpful if we actually had that sword, would it not?" He cleared his throat and looked at the table, "Forgive me, but I did not hear you mention where such a sword might be found and where we might have to travel to obtain it."

Bran responded, "You're right, Ser Davos, I did not mention it. There will be no need to travel anywhere except into the earth below us." More than a few faces showed surprise and Jon looked up then, stunned. "The sword is here?" He looked haggard, changed by the news, yet there seemed to be a sliver of relief which flickered across his face now.

"Yes. Lightbringer is in the deepest level of our crypts, lying across the knees of the oldest King of Winter, Bran the Builder."

 **This was not my favorite chapter to write since it's just a rather boring load of information, but it was necessary to reveal where I am going with this endgame. Please keep in mind that I am not Martin and have no intention of necessarily fulfilling an ending that he might intend, rather I am going with one that I feel is plausible, yet more along with what will do fan service. :D**

 **Credit goes mostly to Deep Geek on Youtube for some incredible fan theories, but other Youtube videos also have influenced my brainchild of my ending. Stay tuned, there's lots more to come! Thanks as always for the feedback I LOVE it! Y'all are the best!**


	19. Chapter 19

**This might be TMI, but I was totally turned on while writing this, haha. Clearly I've been having sexy chapter withdrawls since I couldn't wait to write this one after the more blah blah content of recent chapters. :P**

Chapter 19

Sandor was waiting at the door of the council chamber after the meeting had been dismissed. Sansa approached him almost shyly, still not used to being his wife, and the nearly-two-days spent away from him had put her even more out of practice. His eyes raked over her, from the braids pulled back at her temples to the hem of her gown which swept the floor as she walked. He smiled and offered his arm to her, drawing a laugh from Sansa who took it, "Oh, aren't you are the picture of chivalry?" They headed from the hall toward their bedchambers.

Sandor chuckled, "Nah, I'm not chivalrous. That shite is for the knights." He looked sideways at her, "I just like you." He returned his gaze to the walkway ahead of them, "And I missed you. I had to make sure it wasn't all just a fancy dream."

She squeezed his arm a little, "Oh, that would be sad. I don't know what I would have done if I had awakened to find that our love was only a dream." She looked thoughtful as she walked, her gown clutched in her free hand to keep it from tripping her. "I used to imagine sometimes that there was something there between us before there was." She blushed slightly as she said it, glancing up at him.

Sandor raised his eyebrows. "Did you? You were a bad little bird, were you?" He grinned, looking down at his feet as he walked. "I would never have guessed that. You're supposed to be a proper lady, what would you have been thinking about me for?" He almost looked like a child, trying to suppress pleasure at unexpected praise.

Sansa scrunched her face up a little as she attempted to answer, "I don't know really, except that there was something about you which drew me to you. I mean, aside from the fact that you were gentle when others were cruel." She stroked his arm as she said it. "Maybe it was because I could see that you wanted me yet could not have me." She allowed herself a shy, naughty grin.

Sandor feigned shock. "I wanted you? It couldn't have been that obvious or my head would be on a spike." He chuckled again, "'Course I wanted you, every man wanted you. Don't tell me you don't know how pretty you are, Sansa."

Sansa had the grace to blush, "That's not what I meant. I thought that you wanted me more than just—than just like a man wants a beautiful woman," she finished.

They'd reached the door of their chambers and Sandor pushed it in, looking back at his wife as she followed him inside. "You're right, I did." He pulled her arm, drawing her to his chest. "I wanted to protect you, but I also wanted to give you the happiness that you deserved." He pecked her on the lips. "Which I knew you could never get from a man like me." He shrugged, and looked away, thoughtful for a moment. "I guess I was always kind of confused about the way I felt about you."

She placed her hands on his chest and looked into his deep, brown eyes. "And are you still confused about it?"

He snorted a little laugh and wrapped one large arm about her shoulders, "Are you trying to turn me into a soft little nance, is that it?" He buried his head in her neck, drawing his lips along the smooth skin. Sansa giggled, pulling away playfully from his ticklish beard. His mouth drew up to her ear, planting kisses at intervals, until she heard his voice low and raspy in it, "No, Sansa, there's no confusion anymore. I'm fucking mad about you." He grasped her earlobe with his teeth and pulled slightly, his other hand raking her hair. "Is that what you need to hear? That I've loved you since the Capital? Since you belonged to the king and he set his cunts to beat you?" He pulled her into him, ravishing her neck and shoulder. "I'll never let another man touch you so long as I'm breathing." He pulled back and looked into her deep blue eyes, one large hand behind her head. "You're mine." He almost bared his teeth as he said it.

Sansa released a ragged breath and pressed her mouth onto his, her hand pulling his head toward her. They kissed feverishly, with all the passion of a new relationship. After a few breathless moments, she pulled away from him, her hands pressing against his chest. She walked slowly toward the bed, pulling on the strings of her cloak as she went. The garment slipped from her shoulders and fell heavily to the floor. She glanced back at her husband, biting her lower lip uncertainly. Then she turned her body toward him again, and removed her boots and stockings. He watched her slow, deliberate movements, feeling the lust building inside of him. She stood and began pulling on the laces of her gown.

"I was remembering last night about the time in King's Landing when you walked me back to my room. On Joffrey's nameday. Do you remember?" She pulled at the laces on the bodice, loosening the fabric from her figure.

Sandor continued watching her, his breeches beginning to feel tighter. He took one step toward her, but she took one more backwards, maintaining the distance between them; teasing him. He growled, "Aye, I remember."

She slowly pulled the gown over her head, shaking her hair free, and letting the garment fall to her feet. "I like that memory. I've thought of it before many times. But I usually change the ending." She drew her hands sensually up her legs and stomach, the thin fabric of her undergown clinging to her curves, revealing everything and nothing to him all at once. Her hand went up behind her neck as she bent her head to one side, her lower lip in her mouth.

Sandor made a guttural sound from his chest, his fists clenching and unclenching while he watched her. "How did you change it?" His eyes were devouring her, his voice deep and husky.

She began unmaking her braids, pulling the hair loose slowly. "I made you admit that you wanted to fuck me." Her hands raked through her hair and she tossed it gently about her, the kinks from the braids hanging about her face and giving her a tousled look. "I made you lose control and shove me against the wall, kissing me for the first time."

He cracked his neck side to side, trying to release his sexual frustration. "And when did you first start changing that memory?" He kicked off his boots as he spoke, and removed his mail and leathers.

She almost whispered her response, her eyes dropping coquettishly to the floor, "In King's Landing. And again after you'd first arrived here." She drew one hand up her leg, pulling the gown with it and nearly revealing herself to him, before letting it fall back down. Her hands moved slowly to the laces at her breasts.

Sandor pulled his tunic over his head. His breeches clearly showed the bulge which had grown larger since his wife began tormenting him. Sansa's eyes flashed desire and he flexed his chest involuntarily. "What else did you make me do?"

She had removed the last of the laces, holding the gown against her breast to keep it in place. "You tear my gown open with your hands." She allowed the gown to slip loosely down her shoulders before falling completely to the floor. Her nakedness sent his blood pulsing hot through his veins; he was wild with desire. "Then you press your hard cock into me and fuck me." One hand hovered at her shoulder and the other was gently settled on her thigh, curved around her hips.

There was nothing sexier than hearing Sansa speak dirty to him. "All right, that sounds good to me," he had run out of patience, and quickly closed the gap between them. Sansa's arms wrapped around his neck, her mouth meeting his in a luscious, greedy kiss. His hands groped her naked flesh, savoring the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingers. She fumbled with the laces on his breeches, pulling at them frantically until his pants loosened, falling to the floor. The underclothes followed, releasing his swollen manhood from them. She pulled him against her, loving the feel of his hot skin on hers, his cock against her stomach as her tongue explored his mouth.

He pulled back suddenly and turned her around roughly, shoving her against the wall. Her hands and breasts pressed against the cold stone, sending chills through her entire body. "And did you imagine me doing this to you, little bird?" He wrapped one hand around her neck, holding her chin firmly to one side as he covered her mouth with his, his other hand moving between her legs. Sansa moaned and arched her back, allowing him easier access to her. Two fingers slid inside of her and she whined into his mouth, reaching one hand behind her to grasp his head, the other supporting her against the wall.

Sandor continued to work his fingers inside her, until Sansa pulled away from his kiss, gasping. She threw her head backward onto his shoulder, her eyes closed and her mouth open in ecstasy. He redirected his mouth to her neck and shoulders, while continuing to thrust deeply with his fingers, driving her wild. "I was pretty drunk that night, I'd have caved easily." He grasped her breast in his huge hand before removing his fingers from her, bringing them up to his mouth and sucking first on one, then the other. "I wanted you badly." His breath was hot against her neck. "I wanted to taste you like I'm doing now."

Sansa's voice shook as she attempted a response, "I—I was alone," she gasped. "You could've taken me." Her long hair brushed against his chest and shoulder and he pressed his face into it, inhaling deeply. One of her hands reached behind her, feeling for his cock. She grasped it tightly, causing a sharp intake of breath from him and he caught her chin again from behind, forcing her face toward his.

"Aye, I could've, but I didn't want to 'take' you. I wanted you to give yourself to me."

Sansa held onto his manhood as she looked into his eyes, black in the candlelight. "And that's why I love you, Sandor." She pressed her mouth onto his.

He returned her kiss, then grabbed his cock himself, positioning it against her. She arched her back into him as he held her hips with one hand, supporting himself on the wall with the other. Sandor slowly pushed himself into her, sliding up into her warm and wet cunt, and drawing a stifled squeal from her throat. His arm moved to her breasts while he bit down on her neck and thrust himself into her.

Sansa moaned and whined, grasping his neck with one arm. He felt amazing inside of her, full and warm, pressing into the places that sent chills down her spine and shudders up her limbs. His hips moved rhythmically, smacking his lower abdomen against her bottom with each thrust. She was extremely wet and he glided easily, lifting her slightly each time he pumped in and out of her.

Sandor pulled back momentarily, turning her around forcibly to face him again before hoisting her up by her thighs. Her back rested against the wall and her legs wrapped around him as he entered her again. He slid one hand behind her back, pulling her long hair slightly as he fucked her. Sansa was overcome with passion, panting and whining, clawing at his back in an attempt to release the pleasure that was building inside of her. She thought of him fucking her in King's Landing like this, hiding their passion from the king, giving into the desires that had ravaged them. It drove her over the edge. Her mouth bit down into his shoulder stifling the scream as the pleasure overtook her. Her hand grasped the back of his head, pulling at his hair while her eyes squeezed shut. She released her breath raggedly into his shoulder and could feel her muscles clenching involuntarily around his huge cock.

He pulled her from the wall and walked her to the bed, where he lay her against the edge. Sandor stood up to his full height and began to pound into her, fast and hard, holding one of her legs on his shoulder and using it as leverage to pull her into him. He did not last long like that; the vision of her breasts bouncing with each thrust and her face contouring in pleasure was overwhelming. He bit down on her lower leg as he released inside her, pressing his groin as far as it would go into her. Sansa loved the feeling of when he reached his pleasure, his cock swelling inside her before pulsing with his seed. It filled her with a lusty satisfaction, as if she'd consumed all of him, and she pulled him down on top of her, opening her mouth on his.

He kissed her long and deeply before finally pulling back and releasing all of his weight on her, feigning exhaustion. Sansa laughed and coughed, smothered under his weight. He slipped out of her and rolled onto the bed. "Fucking hell, I'll never get tired of that."

Sansa giggled, "Good." She sighed, satisfied, and one arm relaxed above her head, while the other rested on her stomach. "I would never have imagined that it could feel so incredible." She knitted her brows in remembrance, "It was only painful and awful with Ramsay."

Sandor scoffed, "Rape is not sex." He put his arm around her. "I would give anything to kill that bastard."

Sansa smiled, "Did I ever tell you how I killed him?" She placed her head in the hollow of his shoulder, tracing invisible lines on his chest.

He chuckled at the ceiling, "No, I don't think you did. I'd heard he was beaten by Jon and then executed."

Her voice grew cold, "Yes, I executed him. Ramsay loved to hunt people with his hounds. He'd had them starved for 7 days prior to the battle, threatening to feed our men to them. So, after he lost, I had him bound to a chair and placed in the kennels." She looked up at him as she stroked his beard. "The hounds finished him quickly."

Sandor raised his eyebrows, chuckling softly. "Remind me never to get on your bad side." He kissed her head, "I'm glad that bastard got what he deserved." He raised himself up on his elbow, looking down at her. "Every time I think of him touching you, I feel—cold. I love to imagine what it would feel like to crush his throat in my hands."

Sansa smiled and stroked his burned cheek. "Look at us, bonding as we discuss another man's gruesome death. Do all couples do this after they've made love?"

Sandor laughed. A real, loud guffaw, resting his forehead on her chest as he shook with it. Sansa's heart flipped inside of her. She wasn't sure if she'd ever heard him laugh without bitterness or sarcasm. She couldn't remember, but she knew that she loved it. He kissed her collarbone before resting his chin on her chest. "I would like to keep you, little bird."

She smiled softly and cupped his cheek, "All right, my love." She kissed his forehead, "I'm yours."


	20. Chapter 20

**I'm sorry for the delay, but I promise I won't abandon this story. I have a good excuse, which is that my rescue pup chewed my computer cord (sigh). I got a new one though and although I'm working this week in my free time on my friend's baby shower cake, I will not forget this story.**

Chapter 20

"Gendry, I work alone!" Arya's voice carried down the corridor where she was walking quickly, away from the great hall after breaking her fast. Gendry dogged her heels, his shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides as he attempted to persuade the younger Lady Stark.

"Arya, listen!" She did not respond so he brought his hand to her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Arya pivoted, glaring at him. "Please," he tried again, "let me come with you. I can help you." He looked as if his courage failed him momentarily when he met her eyes. She could be so intimidating.

"Why are you so insistent? I travel faster, I work better alone! I'm not a lady who needs an escort." Her arms crossed in front of her, her stance confident and formidable. Gendry swallowed and continued, determined.

"Because I know that flea-infested city better than anyone else here! I can help you, and you need someone you trust who can get a message back here if something goes wrong!"

Arya's countenance flickered, a brief moment of contemplation betrayed in her dark eyes. Gendry didn't need further encouragement. He continued to press the issue. "Besides," his mouth set in a hard line, his jaw muscles clenching, "that woman not only murdered my father, but tried her damnedest to murder me too. I have just as much reason for revenge as you do."

Arya chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, glancing in the direction of Winterfell's gates, and the road south. After a moment, she rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently. "Fine, I'm leaving in five minutes and I'm not waiting for you." She uncrossed her arms and continued down the corridor to her bedchamber. After a few steps, she called over her shoulder without looking back, "I don't hear your feet moving."

Gendry grinned, turned on his heel and took off running in the direction of his quarters. He nearly bowled over Sansa in his hurry, who was leaving the breakfast hall, but he dodged her just in time, shouting apologies over his shoulder.

Sansa looked back at Daenerys and Jon who were following her from the hall. She raised an eyebrow, "What was that about?"

Jon grinned good-naturedly, "That was a stricken young man convincing our sister to give in to his demands." The trio made their way to the courtyard where Daenerys would be meeting with her Dothraki commanders, the horde's arrival having been announced minutes ago by a returned scout.

Sansa knitted her brow, "And what demands does he make of her?"

"She told me last night that he was determined to join her on her mission to the capital," Jon continued, chuckling in remembrance. "She seemed conflicted about it. She certainly enjoys his company, but," he looked at Sansa, knowingly. "Well, it's Arya. She's grown used to working alone." Jon looked over his shoulder in the direction Gendry had disappeared, "But, judging by how fast he was running, it would seem he's won her over."

Sansa chuckled and looked ahead thoughtfully. "There is something there, I think."

Dany, who was walking between the two, raised an eyebrow at Sansa. "You think?" She scoffed, and a look of amusement played on her features. "I don't believe I've ever seen another two people with such obvious chemistry who seem so determined to pretend there's nothing there." She glanced at Jon before straightening suddenly, remembering. "No, that's not right. I had forgotten about your wildling and the Lady Brienne."

Jon laughed outright, "Aye, there's something there too."

Sansa rolled her eyes, suppressing a grin, "Yes, but whether both parties _want_ something there is another matter entirely." They chuckled together as they approached the interior gates which began to swing inwardly, leaving deep gouges in the snow as they dragged across it.

The horselords cantered into the courtyard almost immediately, pulling up before their Queen. They looked different with more clothing on, however ill-suited it was for the weather of the North. Dany made a mental note that they would need materials for the women to sew more weather appropriate garb if they were to survive the winter.

The hard, barbaric-looking men inclined their heads at their silver-haired queen and began to speak in the Dothraki tongue. Daenerys responded and they exchanged in this manner for a few moments. Sansa thought the language sounded very guttural and primal; it certainly suited these wild, savage warriors. The man who was speaking gestured toward the horde and then rode back the way he had come. Daenerys addressed Jon without turning her head to acquaint them with the exchange.

"He says they have captured a prisoner on the Kingsroad. An enemy who would please me." Daenerys looked mildly interested, her hands clasped in front of her.

In a few moments the Ko walked his horse back through the gates, a rope in one hand. He had a satisfied look on his face as he turned his head to look behind him, his long braid tossing and jingling the bells which hung in it. At the other end of the rope, a man walked behind the horse, wrists bound. Despite being a captive, he sauntered easily with an air of unconcerned arrogance. Jon stepped forward to get a better look. "I know you. You're Cersei's man."

He spat and looked disinterested. His accent was fairly thick and he spoke with lazy confidence. "Not Cersei's. I was her brother's man." He snorted, "Both brothers, really, but it was the pretty one that was the most recent."

Jon regarded him for a moment before Sansa stepped forward. "Jon, this is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. He served my former husband, Lord Tyrion." Her hands were clasped in front of her, her hair pulled back in the Northern style. On her shoulders was a thick, fur lined cloak and she wore black gloves and a long, dark wool gown. She looked the picture of Northern royalty, and a beautiful woman.

Bronn took this all in as he looked her up and down. "Well now, you've changed a bit, haven't you?" His grin drew up one side of his face. "I'm thinkin' that marriage mighta been consummated had you looked like _that_ in the capital."

Sansa did not flinch at his comment, her eyes remained cold and void of expression. Bronn looked back toward Daenerys. If Sansa had unnerved him, it didn't show. "Anyhow, I'm _Lord_ Bronn now. At least in title since I still ain't seen the castle I've been promised half a dozen times."

"Well, _Lord_ Bronn, you will offer Lady Sansa the proper respect that's due a lady." Daenerys' voice was strong with her authority and she held her chin high. "Do not forget that you're my captive and until I decide what is to be done with you, you would do well to maintain your courtesies."

Bronn leaned his head back slightly, assessing the dragon queen. "Beggin' pardon, ya grace, but I never had much courtesies to begin with. Them horse fuckers found me after I'd gone to find Ser Jaime." He cast a dour look at the man on the horse. "Since not a one of them speaks the common tongue, it's only a damn stroke o' luck that I'm alive since some of thems in charge recognized me from our friendly meeting at the dragon pit." He turned his attention back to the Queen. "Guessin' they wanted to please you by bringin' you back an enemy." He laughed a bit sardonically, "Ironic that I was just tryin' to follow up Ser Jaime who I'm guessin' went to your side anyway."

Jon glanced at Daenerys before responding, "Aye, Ser Jaime has informed us of Cersei's treachery. She's recanted her oath of peace and declared to reclaim the land Daenerys won." Jon's disgust of the woman was plain on his face.

Bronn shrugged, "Seems to me your lot shoulda known that would happen to begin with. Cersei never gave two shits about anyone but her own whelps and her pretty brother. With all her children dead, it was only Jaime she cared for; that and power, o' course." He shook his head. "The day that blonde cunt gives a rat's ass about the Seven Kingdoms will be the day she chooses herself a man that don't look like herself." He chuckled at his own joke.

Daenerys attempted to hide the flash of shame she felt at his easy portrayal of what should have been obvious to everyone. "My hand, Lord Tyrion, assured us that she could be persuaded." She spoke through gritted teeth. "I lost my dragon for that hopeless cause. It seems we put too much faith in both of them."

"You and me both then, your grace. Still ain't got no damn castle I was promised nor no pretty lady wife neither." He spat again, "That's why I went after him, I knew I wouldn't be gettin' no such promises from the queen. She hardly tolerated me when her brother was there, knew it wouldn't be long before she'd have me head on a spike once he'd left." He cocked his head, "I don't much like me head, but I prefer it where it's at." Again, the lazy grin.

A cheerful voice came from behind them, one which was louder and more confident than one would expect from someone with his stature. "I'd know _that_ drawl anywhere! Seems old friends are turning up every few hours." Tyrion approached the small gathering and smiled hugely, "Ser Bronn. Tell me, is my dear sister on her way to Winterfell as well? Seems she's the only one missing now."

Bronn did not attempt to hide his pleasure at seeing the dwarf, "Lord Tyrion, I was just tryin' to convince your queen that I'm no enemy. Came after your brother." Bronn suddenly stood up straight and looked beyond Tyrion, recognition in his features. "Seems I've come to the right place for 'im." He nodded brusquely, "Woulda been a mite easier if you'd waited up for me, Ser Jaime. As it were I fell in with this smelly lot." He jerked his head in the direction of the Dothraki. "Seems to me they're so grumpy cause they're not dressed for the weather." The man seemed to get easy amusement from his own humor.

Jaime gave him a rather tired smile, "Lord Bronn. Forgive me, at the moment I'm fresh out of castles and ladies to offer you. Unless…," he turned to Jon, "How old is that vicious Lady Mormont? She won't be a bit near as tiresome as old Lollys Stokeworth was."

Jon was in no mood and ignored the jape. He turned instead to Daenerys, "My queen, I do not see this man as a threat. If he would join in our war against the dead, he will be given a reward suitable to his station once the fighting is done."

Daenerys thought for a moment before she finally nodded and addressed the Ko. After a few words, he vaulted off his horse and slit the rope binding Bronn's hands, but not without spitting a few words at him and pushing him with his chest.

Bronn snorted at the warrior's attempt to antagonize him. He was much too easygoing to be driven to retaliation. He rubbed his wrists, turning his attention to Daenerys, "Much obliged to ya, your grace." Daenerys nodded briefly in acknowledgement and began speaking Dothraki again. The khalasar was instructed to make camp beyond the gates with her Unsullied and the other Northern armies. The barbarians inclined their heads again, responded a few words in their tongue, before galloping out the way they had come.

The party turned back toward the castle, except the Queen who followed the khalasar beyond the gates, looking to speak with Missandei and Grey Worm. The Lannister brothers escorted Bronn to a meal and hearty conversation, so Jon and Sansa fell into step together. They had planned to head to the council chambers when they saw Arya and Gendry approaching.

The pair walked their mounts behind them, their saddlebags already packed and loaded on the beasts. Sansa saw they had chosen light mounts for speed and packed very little. They planned to ride hard to White Harbor and then sail to King's Landing. Arya had again donned the cold expression which revealed the hardened killer she'd become. She had a mission, a name which would finally be crossed off her list. And unlike those she'd been sent to murder at the House of Black and White, this was not just someone whose death had been bought by a jealous enemy. This was a person who had brought devastation to House Stark, who had singlehandedly murdered thousands. A woman who clawed her way to power through lies and cruelty. This would be justice served.

Her expression broke slightly as she approached Sansa, a small smile playing on her lips. She inclined her head and Sansa returned the gesture, before quickly stepping forward and drawing her sister into an embrace. "Come back to me, Arya. I couldn't bear to lose you again." She spoke the words for only Arya to hear.

Arya closed her eyes briefly before pulling away, smiling up at her older sister. "I will. A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell." Sansa thought that was a strange thing to say, but Arya had moved on to Jon.

Jon looked down at her and smiled sadly. "I don't care if you're not truly my sister, you'll always be my Arya." He stroked her head, studying her face. "They say you favor my mother, and that's just one more reason to love you."

Arya threw her arms around him, "Don't die on me, Jon. Remember to stick 'em with the pointy end."

Jon chuckled as he drew back from her, "I'm not sure it'll be that simple with these enemies." He smiled as she turned to her horse. "Good luck. And don't get yourself killed." She and Gendry both mounted, and they said their farewells to him as well.

"Take care of my sister, Gendry." Sansa called up to him, determined to get in one last tease. Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes, but Gendry grinned and winked at Sansa. They dug their heels in and shot out the gate.

Jon and Sansa continued toward the hall. She moved slowly, suddenly dreading the conversation she must have with him. There was no point in putting it off any further; it was now or never. _Please let him listen._ She took a deep breath and stopped walking, turning to her cousin.

Jon pulled up abruptly, "What's wrong?"

Sansa straightened and drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily. She decided to get right to the point. "Jon, I will not leave with the people to White Harbor this morning."

Jon frowned, crinkling his brow. It was not like Sansa to defy him after he'd made up his mind.

She continued, "You know what Father always said. I mean…" she paused momentarily, looking awkward. The old habit was difficult to overcome.

Jon nodded impatiently for her to continue. "I know what you mean, go on."

She did. "Both he and my mother taught us that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You know it as well as I. Arya is gone, and Bran has said himself that he is not really a Stark anymore. He has become the three-eyed-raven in our brother's body. That leaves me." She spoke with confidence, her voice unwavering. "Our people need to see a Stark in Winterfell, they need to know that we are here during this fight."

Jon looked conflicted. He inhaled deeply and let it out his nose quickly, casting his eyes to the ground. "And what if something happens to you, what about house Stark then?"

"Jon, something could happen at any time to any of us or all of us. Who's to say I'm any safer in White Harbor than I am here? I'll go to the crypts for safety, but I want to be here. This is my home." She was determined, "I have been a prisoner, a captive, a fugitive. I've been tossed about from one place to another, never having a choice. I'm a woman now, and more than that, I am the head of House Stark. Please, let me make my own choice now." She took his hands in hers, beseeching.

Jon sighed and met her gaze. There was no fear in her cool, blue eyes, only strength and determination. He caved and finally nodded, a tired smile touching his cheeks. "All right. I understand. If you would stay then stay and help lead. Gods know we need all the help we can get."

Sansa kissed his cheek and squeezed his hands. "Thank you, Jon."

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The mass exodus of people which headed south to White Harbor occurred not long after. Thousands of smallfolk mobilized with wagons loaded with earthly goods, driving their animals before them. Children ran alongside and dogs bounded in and out of the throng. For every ten who could not fight, a soldier had been assigned so that the people were not entirely without defense. The heirs of lords and ladies of lesser houses who would not be expected to fight rode on ahead, the command given to none other than Davos Seaworth. He knew the water and the docks better than any man and Jon could think of none more suited to lead a group of people whose sole mission was survival than a man who had survived war and worse the way Ser Davos had. He also had the trust of the lords and ladies of the North, especially young Lady Mormont who rode beside him and lent strong, Northern authority to his command.

By midday, the last of the crowd had fallen in step on the road to White Harbor, and gradually the great clamor of the march faded away. Sansa watched from one of Winterfell's towers, leaning slightly on the balustrade. She was filled with gratitude that she had not been one of the party. Snow had begun to fall as the last of the people had left her line of sight, and now it seemed as if the world melted into a sea of white. She smiled despite the circumstances. Sansa loved the snow; it felt like home. The way it drifted gently from the sky seemed the very embodiment of peace and tranquility. Each new snowfall covered all of the past, blanketing the world in a clean, crisp, fresh slate to start anew. She caught a flake in her glove and smiled before turning and heading back to her duties with the steward.

Inside Winterfell, a distant sound of hammers and picks could be heard if one stopped to listen. Since Bran had revealed the whereabouts of the sword called Lightbringer, Jon had assigned crews day and night to digging at the collapsed section of the crypts. If the sword was their only hope for victory, it must be found as soon as possible. The tunnel had fallen hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years ago, and had never been reopened. It was just crypts, after all, the graves of all the Stark dead. Now it must be done, and there was never more urgency to complete a task. As many men as could fit in the space were set to hacking and hauling the rock and earth to break through.

Jon and Daenerys were preparing for the great battle, meeting with the captains, and drawing out plans. Dragonglass weapons had been distributed, although there was only enough for about one in five warriors. The rest would have to make do with fighting with fire and their own weapons. Those with greater skill and swords of obsidian or Valyrian steel would seek out and engage the Walkers in combat. The greatest threat was, of course, the dragon wight. Jon did not want to risk Dany by allowing her to fight him on the back of her own dragon. It was decided that, if at all possible, Bran would attack the Night King on Viserion inside the mind of Rhaegal while Dany used Drogon to burn as many of the dead as possible.

Everything had come down to waiting. Waiting on the Night King to arrive, and waiting on the crypts to be opened to reveal Lightbringer. They talked of bringing the fight to him, but most agreed that Winterfell would be the best place for defense with the crypts to fall back to if the battle appeared to be lost. Besides, it would do little good to meet the Night King in battle without the weapon that was needed to defeat him.

The Children of the Forest, who had kept much to themselves and their quarters since arriving at Winterfell, were a source of great interest to several in the castle. Tyrion would attempt to speak with them at every opportunity, prying information and histories out of them as a child would beg a beloved grandparent for stories. The maester also was keen to learn from them, although his approach was much more academic than Tyrion's. The Children themselves were polite and kind, if not a bit melancholy. They had never lived with men, and although they had been well-acquainted with Howland Reed, being surrounded by mankind was unnerving and they spent much of their time alone in the godswood. Tyrion gathered their names; the female was called Rain and the male, Moss. While the names seemed strange and even somewhat childish (appropriately) to Tyrion, he understood from them that all of the Children were given names which reflected nature. They were meant to be simple, unassuming, and humble, reminding those who heard them of the importance of the forces and elements of nature. A Child was not considered more important than the rain or a leaf, they explained, though every part of nature had a purpose and coexisted harmoniously. Tyrion was fascinated by them.

That evening at supper, the mood was tense and foreboding. Though Bran could sometimes see the Night King, he had not of late had any clear visions. Fierce snow and wind would obstruct his view from the ravens he spied with, making his vision all but useless. He knew the Night King was intentionally preventing his seeing their whereabouts. This meant they would have no prior warning, and everyone felt the tension of not knowing. They ate mostly in silence, rushed, every man not wishing to be caught unawares.

Sansa looked about her as she picked at her food, feeling somewhat nauseated. Her nerves, it seemed, would not allow her to eat. She caught her husband's eye as he wolfed down his stew, and smiled at him. Not knowing what prompted the attention, he raised an eyebrow and cocked his head curiously, looking exceptionally like a friendly dog. Sansa shook her head and lowered it, trying to hide her smile. Winter might have come, death might be at their door, but she'd be damned if it would take her spirit. Despite the palpable tension and uncertainty, she could not wish to be anywhere else. She had her family, her love, and her freedom, every one of which was worth dying for.

 **Please don't hesitate to review, your responses, follows and favorites give me motivation to get back on my computer and pump out more story! When I have a night go by with no updates I'm like "aw man." Lol. Shut up, I'm needy. ;)**


	21. Chapter 21

**It's been awhile since we've had a chapter that's more perspectives than overview, so this one will jump into some heads.**

Chapter 21

The light that filtered past the curtains was hazy, dimmer than would be expected for a sunrise. _The snow must still be falling._ Sandor raised the bedcovers slowly, glancing sideways at his sleeping wife beside him, and taking extra care not to wake her. He slipped out of bed and pulled on his clothing while his thoughts drifted to the things which had occurred in that bed the night before. His cock flexed involuntarily, a shot of pleasure rising through his stomach in remembrance of it. The couple could not get enough of each other, sexually or otherwise, and though he was sure it would catch up with him eventually, for now he could still keep up.

After dressing, he quietly splashed water on his face, washing the sleep from his eyes and running his fingers through his hair in place of a comb. He walked around to the side of the bed where Sansa slept, her hair tossed about the pillow, her long lashes resting on the soft, ivory cheeks he knew so well now. Long, even breaths proceeded from her mouth which was open slightly in an unladylike fashion, but which he thought was endearing as hell. _I'll never know what I did to deserve you._ He smiled down at her, allowing the rare moment of tenderness, as he placed a kiss on her forehead. She stirred, but did not wake, and after a final glance back at her, he quietly left the room.

Sandor had always been an early riser, and with tensions so high, he would be damned if he'd be caught by the oncoming army unawares. He made his way to the great hall where he would get some food in his belly before going into the practice yard. It had been too long since he'd swung a sword and the crisp, frozen air made him feel alive.

He pushed in the heavy doors and entered the hall where several hearths were already crackling. The smell and heat were inviting, and though he welcomed the invigorating cold of the yard for practice, it was much more pleasant to eat where it was warm. A few other bodies dotted the hall, breaking their fast in relative silence. He moved toward an empty table, preparing to call for a servant, when he heard himself beckoned.

"Clegane!" It was a friendly, morning sort of greeting, and he rotated quickly to see who called, although he was already fairly certain by the voice.

Jaime Lannister raised his mug toward Sandor, a lazy grin on his face. "Come join me. It's been a long time since I've been in your company, and never with you as an equal." His eyes gestured to the table where his food was already in front of him.

Sandor hesitated, glancing at the inviting emptiness of the table he'd been heading for. _Damn him._ He judged it best to at least attempt to be civil. The man had called him an equal, after all. _Unless he's mocking me, which is more likely._ Still, there was something of a sincerity in Jaime since his arrival at Winterfell which Sandor had not seen before, and he'd been more than a little curious about it already. His own journey of reconciliation with his past and attempt at redemption which had begun since he'd befriended Septon Ray had changed the way he saw himself. Perhaps Jaime—the man who had always revolted him with his sickeningly perfect looks, easy arrogance, and sharp, cruel tongue—had experienced a similar change of heart. After all, he had of his own accord abandoned his bitch of a sister which said a lot in itself. Sandor grunted and moved toward him, with only a hint of reluctance.

Jaime watched the huge man with curiosity as his leg swung over the bench opposite him. He turned away momentarily to call for the servant to bring food and ale for his friend, and then his attention was back on Sandor, who met his gaze with his usual, unimpressed glare.

"Clegane, I've been meaning to tell you how impressed I am with you." Jaime's drawl always sounded like it toed the line between sarcasm and sincerity. Sandor raised an eyebrow and scoffed, deciding it was likely the former, and his mouth twitched on the burned side of his face.

"What, easier for you to mock me when I'm sittin' next to you, is that it?" He growled, leaning slightly forward so his face was closer to Jaime's. He glanced down at the golden hand of his companion, then met his eyes again. "We're equals as you just reminded me, and there's nothing stopping me from making short work of you now that I'm not your family's dog anymore." He said the words through clenched teeth, his anger rising. "How well does that golden hand grasp a sword?" He sneered.

Jaime raised both hands in surrender, "You mistake me, Clegane, I had not intended to mock you." He looked sideways at nothing, almost seeming frustrated with himself, before turning back to the scarred, angry man facing him. "You have every reason to believe I was, I understand that. I am—," he paused, squinting his eyes a little as he thought about how to choose his words, "I am not the same man I was." He chuckled at himself, surprised at his own admission. "I had hoped that my coming here would make that clear. I backed an oath in that dragonpit and I meant to keep it." He leaned back a bit, hoping his sincerity showed on his face more than his embarrassment.

Sandor narrowed his eyes at the man, unsure of whether to believe him or not. Jaime smiled a little sadly at him, "If I have heard your story correctly, you understand something of redemption?" He sighed at Sandor's lack of response and stared down into his mug of ale. When he spoke again, he spoke to the table. "I know the world thinks I have shit for honor," he looked up again, "and it's too late to change most everyone's perception of me. But I mean to do what I believe is right." He smiled again, somewhat bitterly, "Apparently what is right involved leaving my sister to join your merry lot."

Sandor grunted, unsure of how to respond to Jaime's openness. He took a swig of the ale which had been delivered to him and wiped his mouth, his dark eyes fixing on the man they called Kingslayer. "So what have I done to impress you then?"

Jaime chuckled and seemed almost surprised that Clegane had understood him. "Well, for one," he began, "you're still alive after abandoning the king and your station." At Sandor's glare he clarified quickly, "Not saying I blame you." Jaime pushed the potatoes around on his plate, studying the larger man. "But mostly, it's at how you managed to make Sansa Stark fall in love with you—and even marry you." He shook his head and took a bite. "That's impressive," he finished, the food in his mouth muffling the words."

Sandor snorted, a touch of humor reaching his eyes as he ripped off a piece of bacon and chewed. "Aye, can't say that I don't agree with you. I still don't really know how that happened." He shrugged, trying to suppress a grin.

Jaime caught it and pushed the joke, "So she bewitched you then? Married you against your will?" He chuckled.

Sandor shrugged again, moving past the jape to the true explanation. "In King's Landing they beat her. Your son was cruel to her." A shadow passed over Jaime's eyes and he swallowed, looking down at his plate. Sandor continued, not intending to dwell on it. "I hated watching those fucking knights beat a helpless girl. I did my best to offer her advice and help her where I could." He took another bite and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Sansa was the best thing about that shit of a city and they hated her for it." He swallowed and continued, "I reckon she remembered that I'd tried to help her there, cause when I came here to offer her my sword she—," he paused, unsure of how to explain what had happened. "She trusted me I guess." He looked at Jaime, trying to determine what the handsome knight would think of his story of conquest. "I suppose she could see that I cared for her. The rest just kind of—happened."

Jamie chuckled sadly and looked at his plate again. He didn't speak for a few moments, taking bites in silence. When he spoke again he had almost a wistful look on his face. "I suppose when death is coming for you, things like propriety or greater and lesser houses don't mean much in the face of love."

Sandor looked at the man, truly surprised at not only the depth of their conversation, but at the exceptional change which had come over Jaime since he'd known him years ago in the capital. He grunted a bit and wolfed another bite down before responding. "I would've laughed at that comment a year ago." He pushed his bread into the bacon grease, wiping it up as a grin crept up his face. "But love does turn a man into a foolish little nance." He shook his head, almost embarrassed and actually shared a chuckle with the man he had once truly hated. _See? Nance._

"Well, you have gone from one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms to one of the most envied," Jaime smiled knowingly. "Sansa Stark has only Daenerys and Cersei for rivals in beauty and consequence, and neither have her innocence."

Sandor raised an eyebrow, "She ain't all that innocent."

Jaime leaned in on his elbows, amusement written in all of his features. "Really?" He took his last bite of food before continuing, "Well the sigil isn't a direwolf for no reason, I suppose. And she _has_ become quite—commanding—since she's come into womanhood. Rather more like her mother than I'd have thought she'd be." He raised his mug to Sandor, "I congratulate you, despite the present circumstances in the world you've managed to improve your situation immensely." He grinned as he said it, preparing to down his ale, when Sandor saw his expression change. His gaze had shifted beyond Sandor's shoulder and all the easy confidence which Jaime naturally portrayed was momentarily shattered. It passed quickly enough, however, and his expression returned to normal as he raised his mug to his lips again, finishing the rest of its contents.

Sandor risked a glance toward the source of Jaime's discomfort. It was none other than Brienne of Tarth who was lumbering into the room. Sandor turned back to Jaime who was forcing ease of manner, yet was clearly disconcerted by her entrance. _What the fuck?_ He took another bite of food as he attempted to process the meaning of it.

Brienne approached the table and nodded a characteristically awkward, "Good morning," to both.

Jaime attempted nonchalance, "Ah, Lady Brienne. I would invite you to join us, but we have just finished." Sandor was too absorbed in reading Jaime's reaction to make any attempt at greeting. He drank the last of his ale, his eyes still trained on the man opposite him. Brienne was responding.

"That's quite all right, I prefer to eat alone," she was the embodiment of awkwardness, and quickly moved on, seating herself at another table. Jaime made a move as if to leave, all the forced calmness apparent in his demeanor. "Well, I should be meeting with my brother, it was—"

Sandor cut him off, grinning as he stood up, and leaned toward the other man until their faces were quite close. "What was it you said? Propriety and greater and lesser houses don't mean much in the face of love?" He snorted at Jaime's face which had lost its color suddenly. Sandor swung his leg back over the bench before muttering at Jaime under his breath, "Death is coming for us, remember." He laughed at Jaime's obvious discomfort and left the hall.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandor returned to his chambers after breakfast to get his armor and found the maester stepping out of the room. The older man inclined his head and gave a courteous smile. "Lord Sandor, I was just leaving."

Sandor thought nothing sounded more ridiculous than the word "lord" before his name, but he let it pass. "Maester. Is everything all right?" He glanced toward the door.

The maester waved his hand, "Oh yes, nothing of importance, I merely needed to speak with the lady. Please excuse me." He bowed and made his way down the hallway. Sandor pushed through the door with a frown, his gaze settling on his wife who was still in bed.

She looked up when he entered and the smile she gave him made his heart flip. "Sandor," she said. "I was having the most pleasant dream, but then when I reached for you, you were gone." She tilted her head and pouted slightly. The Sansa who graced his bed was sometimes a very different creature than the woman who ran Winterfell.

Sandor laughed, "Don't make that face at me, woman. You'd think I'd killed a kitten with my bare hands." He crossed the room and kissed her head. "I didn't want to disturb you. I awoke at first light and I was hungry." He shrugged, "You wore me out last night."

Sansa smacked him playfully. "Should I apologize? I'm so sorry, my lord, I've brought _so_ much difficulty to your life." She rolled her eyes.

He chuckled and kissed her full on the mouth, pushing her head back into the pillow as he leaned over her. "I'm not complaining," he rasped as he pulled away. She looked like a siren lying there with her sultry eyes and flaming hair. "Now stop tempting me, I mean to train today and you're nothing but a distraction." He stood and began putting his armor on. Sansa laughed prettily and stepped out of bed, removing her sleeping gown in one swift motion.

His back was turned as he clasped on the last of his armor, then turned toward the door. Sansa was naked, standing before her looking glass and brushing her long hair. She hummed lazily, running her hands and the brush through the thick, auburn strands alternately. _Fuck it if she doesn't make it impossible to get things done._ The blood rushed to his cock as he took her in, his imagination running wild. He could grab her right now, throw her on the bed and ravage her.

He groaned, "Little bird…"

Sansa spun around, her eyebrows raised in question. "Hmmm?" She caught his expression. "What's wrong?"

He made a face that said "Do you need to ask?" and his eyes roved her body. Sansa laughed as she looked at his breeches, a clear outline showing in them. "I'm sorry, my love. Sometimes I forget I'm not the only one in my room anymore. I'll get dressed." She flitted to her wardrobe, her breasts bouncing as she went.

Sandor closed his eyes and chuckled to himself. _Gods, she has too much power over me. Stop acting like a damned fool._ He shook his head, "I'll be in the training yard," and he left the room, taking special care to rearrange himself in his pants.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jaime watched her in the yard, each blow precise, each step forethought. There was no doubt that she was an incredible fighter. Just observing her was a pleasure. He frowned and wrinkled his brow at his own mental description. Watching her was entertaining, that was better. Her opponent yielded and her eyes met his momentarily. His stomach turned, _she has beautiful eyes. Sapphires._ She quickly looked away and Jaime cleared his throat, uncomfortable by the direction his thoughts had gone.

What was it about Brienne anyway? She was not beautiful by any means, there was no grace or femininity to her. There was no sexuality like there was with Cersei. And yet, his stomach flopped about like a boy when he saw her. The innocent way she looked at him, the simple truth she lived by, demanding honor at every turn. Jaime sighed, remembering Sandor's comment that morning. _Love was what I felt for Cersei. And yet, I left her all the same._

What he felt for Brienne had no similarities to what he felt for Cersei, yet even he could not deny that he felt something for her. It must be friendship; a mutual respect. They'd shared a long and perilous journey together, each suffering, each privy to the inner weaknesses and pain of the other. They shared a solidarity. He walked slowly along the corridor which surrounded and looked out upon the yard. _And what other friend has made you feel the way you do around her?_

Jaime clenched his fist and determined to ignore his thoughts. The big, redheaded wildling was challenging Brienne now, grinning stupidly from ear to ear. _Ah, he likes her. That explains his reception of me._ He laughed to himself and pretended that the stab he felt at the thought was indigestion.

Tormund glared in Jaime's direction before he started sparring, determined to show himself as the alpha male. _What a fool,_ Jaime thought, yet he couldn't help hoping that Brienne would make short work of him.

The pair stepped toward each other, positioning themselves for attack, when a horn blast sounded through the chilly air, long and eerie.

 _Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooooo_

The hair on Jaime's neck rose, and every person in sight stood rooted to the spot, listening. Shouts from the ramparts reached their ears, the words indistinguishable. Brienne looked at Jaime, her eyes wide with fear.

 _Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Men began running, pouring out of halls and barracks, shouts filling the courtyard. Jon and Daenerys burst into the yard; there was both fear and determination written on their faces.

Jon wasted no time and drew his sword, the Valyrian steel singing as it left the sheath. He held it high above his head.

"Winterfell!" his voice carried across the castle, silencing the chaos which had erupted. Men stopped and turned toward him, listening.

"Today we fight for the living, with fire in our hands and blood in our veins!" A dragon shriek sounded overhead and men scattered as Drogon appeared overhead, landing heavily in front of Daenerys and Jon with scarcely a warning. The beast shook its great, scaled head and roared. The men of Winterfell roared in response, the battle cry and the beast's great movements shaking Winterfell to its roots. It was felt beyond the gates by the armies gathered around them. It was felt by Sansa who'd run gasping from her room, clenching the railing until her hands turned white as the snow in the yard. It was felt by the men beneath the ground who furiously hacked at the earth and stone in hope of finding the key to victory over the army of death which had finally reached them.

 **Huge thank you as always to my reviewers and faithful favoriters and followers. I love seeing that you're enjoying the story. Keep it up! Eeeek, I'm excited!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hey guys, first I want to thank everyone SO much for the reviews, every time I get a new one I get a big smile and share it with my fiancé who still swears he'll read the story at some point (my eyes are rolling).**

 **I'm so sorry for the delay, I work weekends and then had to help plan my friend's baby shower so lots of spare time was devoted to that. I spat this chapter out in a bit of downtime today though, didn't want to leave you hanging!**

 **As we go into this epic part of the story, you'll probably see shorter perspective clips over the next few chapters since there will be so much going on in a short period of time. Whatever happens, hang in there and don't lose hope! :D**

Chapter 22

Sansa leaned against the railing, her heart pounding in her chest, her stomach roiling. The huge beast filled much of the courtyard below, creating an impressive juxtaposition between the new magical world they now lived in, and her old, familiar life. She felt as if she'd lived forever there on that balcony, in that moment—as if time had ceased to be a constricting, ever-present reality, and instead would stretch or bend according to the moment. She didn't know how long she stood there, knuckles white, in nothing but a gown, but impervious to the cold. She only knew that she was eventually fairly pried from her position by strong hands pulling on her shoulders.

"Sansa!" Her husband was breathing heavily, his eyes wide as he pulled her to him, his sword still in his right hand. He kissed her heavily, quickly and passionately before pulling back and pressing her forehead into his chest. "We have to get you somewhere safe," he began to pull her toward their bedchamber. Sansa stumbled along behind him, nearly dragged by the huge soldier. "Get a cloak quickly and come with me." Once inside the room, Sansa moved slowly, as if in a daze. The clamor from the courtyard rose to her ears, and a strange, heavy cold seemed to be drifting into the castle over the walls, but she felt as if she were living in a dream.

The urgency in his voice pulled her to action, "Hurry, girl!" Sansa shook her head, trying to get control over her faculties once more. _Cloak. Crypts._ She ran to her wardrobe and snatched a few warm items, throwing the cloak over her shoulders and pulling gloves on as she went. When she reached the door, Sandor grabbed her arm firmly, the urgency in every movement as he pulled her along behind him.

The uproar of the castle was unprecedented. Though the cold wind stung her eyes and brought tears to them as she ran behind her husband, through the mist Sansa could see movement everywhere. The dragon seemed to have taken to the air, and Sansa thought she saw a flash of white on its back; most likely his mother. Everywhere men were running, gathering weapons, strapping on armor, fortifying positions. The couple ambled down the steps and tore through the courtyard toward the entrance of the crypts. The earth seemed to tremble every few minutes, as if some great weight had been suddenly grounded, and for the first time the cold felt penetrating. Sansa pulled her cloak to her, but it was in her bones. And with the cold came fear.

Sandor pulled up suddenly as they reached the entrance to the crypts. In the days prior to the battle, Winterfell had prepared for the onslaught by outfitting their entrance with extra protection. An additional, interior set of doors had been added, only able to be opened from the inside and heavily fortified. If the dead should prevail, the living hoped to have one last stronghold inside of the crypts, and there were several more safety nets inside as well.

Now Sandor grasped his wife's shoulders pulling her close to him. His eyes were intense; she could see the adrenaline of battle already had taken hold of him. "Stay inside!" He warned, his gaze darting back and forth between her eyes. "Only open if you know it to be one of our own, and even then, you have to be careful, Sansa."

She was afraid, truly afraid. She clutched his forearms in her hands, her throat swelling in pain with the lump that had formed. She may never see him alive again. "Sandor," she squeaked out, swallowing hard before continuing. She hated herself for her weakness, but she could not fight the tears. They flowed down her cheeks which had turned red with the cold and exertion, leaving little shining trails. "Please…" she didn't know what to say, what she _could_ say that would make any difference. "Please come back to me." Her voice broke at the last and Sandor pulled her into him, wiping the tears gently from her cheeks.

"I will come back to you," he rasped. "You're the only one I live for now."

Sansa managed a weak smile and he kissed her again, softly, on the lips. It had all taken only a moment, but there was no more time. "Go now." He said gruffly, squeezing her hand and pushing her into the opening. Sansa nodded and swallowed hard. The gates would remain open as the last of the non-fighting people of the castle pressed into the caves. Two strong men stood sentry at the doors, and they nodded at their lady as she moved past them. Sansa turned around for one last look at her husband. He gave her a small, pained smile. Then he was gone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lord Tyrion had been speaking with the Children when the horn was sounded. They were in the godswood, as they often were, and all three paused to listen. The Children exchanged glances and Tyrion jumped to his feet, his eyes wide. "Is this it?" He asked, both to himself and the Children. They nodded almost indistinguishably, and rose slowly to their feet. At their full height they were only an inch or two taller than Tyrion, which was perhaps a secondary reason he enjoyed spending time with them; they made him feel less small. "Come," he said authoritatively. "We must get you to the crypts."

The horn sounded for the second time and they moved to follow him, the leaves rustling beneath their feet, the air heavy with dread. "And you, Lord Tyrion?" Rain asked softly, her voice light and tinkly like her namesake. "You will join us there?"

Tyrion did not look back, his legs waddling as fast as they could go toward the castle. "I do not know. I am certainly no warrior, yet I have fought in more battles than one. It sits ill with me to consider sitting in darkness and safety while my comrades battle for life above me." Tyrion had a way about him; no matter the circumstance, his voice always seemed to exude calmness and logic.

The male Child called Moss spoke then, "We are also trained in warfare, although our kind does not relish fighting and killing the way Men do." He did not say it with the intent of insult. It was their way to speak of the differences between Mankind and the Children in an almost academic or philosophical manner.

Tyrion stopped momentarily to turn and face them. "You are too valuable to enter the fray. You may very well be the last of your kind, do you understand? The world may never see another Child of the Forest if one of you is lost." He spoke authoritatively, and the creatures looked between one another, then back to Tyrion, nodding slightly.

"We understand," said Rain. "We will only fight if there is no other way."

Tyrion did not like that answer, and he pressed his mouth in a hard line, but there was no time to argue. He felt the cold suddenly, creeping through the godswood like an evil fog coming upon them. The Children looked at each other again, "It is Them. The Others have come."

Tyrion spun about and began to run, the Children fast on his heels. The screech of a dragon sounded loud and eerie from overhead, and Tyrion looked up at the great form of Rhaegal heading North. If all was going according to plan, the Stark boy would be in the mind of the beast, preparing to engage the Night King on Viserion.

The dwarf turned his attention back to the castle which they had just re-entered, where men were running to and fro frantically. He glanced behind him to ensure the Children still followed, but upon only seeing Rain, he stopped abruptly, looking about him wildly. "Where is he? We must get you to safety now!"

Rain was calm as she responded, "He has gone to our chambers. We have need of something which we left there. He will meet us at the crypts."

Tyrion made a sound of frustration, but there was nothing to be done and he turned around again and continued in the direction he'd been heading. There were serving women, children, and the elderly men and women who had not gone south to White Harbor now shuffling into the crypts. Some carried hastily packed rucksacks of food or clothing, not knowing how long they must be prisoners in the dark. Water, salt beef, and candles had been stored inside already, a forethought of Lady Sansa who wisely knew that there would be no saying how long they may be trapped underground. Tyrion was grateful for her foresight.

He glimpsed Missandei, Daenerys' advisor hurrying into the open doors along with Varys and a few of the queen's handmaidens. Lady Sansa was being ushered inside reluctantly by her husband who seemed loathe to leave her side. _No great wonder there,_ Tyrion thought. _What man in his right mind would want to leave a beautiful lady for a seemingly hopeless fight with dead men?_

By the time they reached the yawning, dark entrance to the underground caverns, Sandor had already fled to prepare for battle, and the forms of those who had entered were disappearing into the dim passageway. Tyrion gestured Rain inside and scanned the yard for her partner, whom he spotted after a moment running toward them, carrying a large sack over his shoulder. The chaos around him made his head spin, and he would have been pleased to rush into the darkness with them when a thought suddenly gave him pause. _Bran._

 _Damn it all_. Had the boy been brought to the crypts already? If he was flying in the mind of Rhaegal, he would be oblivious to the outside world, unable to call for help to move. Tyrion approached one of the guards at the doors and demanded if the crippled lord had been brought in yet. The guard glanced nervously at his partner before shaking his head. Tyrion clenched his jaw in frustration. _Why must you be the only one who thinks of these things?_

Moss reached Tyrion and gestured for the lord to move inside the cavern ahead of him. Tyrion shook his head, "No, I must go and find the three-eyed-raven. He may be our only hope, and if his body is killed, we may have no chance of victory." Moss nodded gravely, understanding in his face, and then put a hand on Tyrion's shoulder, stopping him before he could leave. He placed his sack on the ground and opened it. It was full of small, spherical objects. Tyrion narrowed his eyes and cocked his head questioningly when Moss handed him two of them.

"They are weapons," the humanoid explained. "Our kind create them with old spells, and earth, and the leaves of the weirwood, mostly." He met Tyrion's gaze with his striking green eyes, and a chill ran down the dwarf's spine as he took hold of the spheres. The Child continued, "We have been making them since we arrived, hoping to be at least of some use."

Tyrion swallowed before asking, "How do I use them? And what do they do?"

"Throw them at the dead, they will be engulfed in flame." He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he were explaining how one operated a bow and arrow.

Tyrion chuckled nervously and responded, "The only question I have left then, is if they will engulf _me_ in flames before I happen to throw them?"

The Child shook his head and Tyrion nodded, "Thank you, although I hope I will not have need of them." He gestured with his head to the crypts. "Go, I will come back as soon as I can with Bran." He didn't bother explaining how he would be bringing Bran back with him. That was a question he had yet to answer for himself. Hopefully there would be other men about whom he could persuade to help.

The Child of the Forest looked solemn, staring momentarily at the dwarf, then proceeded into the semi-darkness without another word, the sack hoisted over his shoulder once again.

Tyrion turned on his heel, and began his search. The dwarf lord in search of the crippled lord, the fate of the world potentially resting on their shoulders. He smiled despite himself. _I'd better hear a song about this when it's all over._


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey guys, like I said, lots of perspectives! It's such a huge event and there's going to be so much going on so hang in there! We'll start this chapter out with a new perspective.**

 **Also, I read your reviews and I love them, but have faith in me! I will toy with your emotions, but I love SanSan and I promise I won't break your hearts—permanently. (I'm not GRRM, although I have to follow his style just a bit.) I don't want to give it away, but I agree with you, this is fanfiction and I wouldn't stray from the desire to fulfill _your_ desires for our favorite couple :D**

Chapter 23

A lifetime built around the art of warfare could not have prepared Grey Worm for what he saw that frozen morning. His army had been ready, well-versed in not only what would likely happen, but in strategies they would take, how they would fight alongside the Dothraki and the Northerners, utilizing the strengths of each.

Still, when the cold fog began rolling in from the north, bringing with it a palpable sense of fear and dread, the Unsullied captain saw his ranks shifting nervously. His men had been raised to fight men; flesh and blood. These were corpses, reanimated by demons of ice. He clenched his fist around his spear, steeling his resolve to be an unwavering figure of strength for his men. He shouted commands as he strode through the perfectly geometric rectangles of his fellow Unsullied soldiers.

As yet there had been no sign of the dragon which they had been warned about, the fallen child of his queen who had been taken by the demon Night King. He saw clearly the lines of fire proceeding from the mouth of Drogon, whom his queen had mounted. The army was slowly coming into view in the distance, many in their ranks already burning. Once the armies of the living joined in the fighting, the beasts would not be able to spit flame for fear of burning men alive, so the two remaining dragons would be taking out as many as possible before the armies collided.

In the distance, Grey Worm saw a flash of blue and yellow lighting up the sky, yet he could see no particulars. His mouth set in a firm line. There was nothing he could do now but wait for the moment to attack. The Dothraki were mounted and ready, occupying a hill across from the Unsullied, yet their stallions had captured the scent of death and were tossing their manes nervously, whinnying and stomping their feet in the snow. He hoped the horselords would be able to maintain control of the beasts; the majority of their strength was on horseback.

Away on distant hills were the armies of the North, with mounted men, footmen, and archers. Grey Worm knew that the archers would soon be loosing flaming arrows or arrows tipped with dragonglass before the force was upon them. The focus was on taking out the White Walkers, the ice demons, for they had been told that the dead would fall when their masters did.

The soldier looked back toward the streams of flame which continued from the mouth of Drogon, lighting up portions of the army, which he could see more clearly now. Still, the dark mass of bodies moved closer, seeming no smaller than before. There could be a hundred thousand—easily three times their numbers. And once their own men began to fall, who could say how long it would take for them to rise up and become the enemy as well? The thought turned Grey Worm's stomach, and he forcibly turned his thoughts to Missandei instead, his beautiful woman.

For she _was_ his now, in body and soul. She had given herself to him more times than one, and he cherished each memory, thinking fondly of the moments they had spent together and wanting nothing more than to continue a life with her. He would fight for her, and for his queen. He would _win_ for her. The thought of her as a corpse made him sick with rage against his enemy, and he hoped the Northerners had fortified the crypts well.

The crypts drew his thoughts to Lightbringer. What had become of the search for the sword which was supposed to be their key to victory? He clenched his jaw. They _must_ get to it in time. There was no other way for them to ultimately claim the victory, so they _must_. It was not for him to worry, it was only for him to fight, and he was ready.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _The sword!_ Sansa's eyes darted about the dimly lit cave, the firelight from the torches casting eerie shadows upon both the living and the statues of the dead. She had only been in the crypts for a few moments before her thoughts, running wild with adrenaline, had landed on the sword. She asked aloud, generally, to no one in particular, "Has anyone heard news from the excavation crew? Have they broken through?"

The cluster of bodies of the living which were now crowded into the space reserved for the dead seemed foreign—misplaced. They looked between one another questioningly, and a few heads shook. There had been such chaos after the horns were sounded that many had forgotten about the search for the sword. _How foolish can we be, ignoring our only hope for victory? We should all be down there digging._ Sansa was exasperated. She looked about her, wringing her hands and chewing her lip as she tried to decide what to do.

The solution came quickly in the form of a plump, perfumed eunuch. Varys sidled up to her, having previously meandered further into the caves in casual exploration before doubling back upon hearing Sansa's question.

"The sword, my lady! I am ashamed to say I myself had forgotten in the clamor of the moment. For only this morning the crewmen came to the council chambers where her grace and Lord Jon had been conferring to announce that they had broken through." The eunuch's eyebrows worked as he spoke, his expressions exaggerated as they always were.

"They broke through?!" She was both excited and relieved, noting the timing could not have been more precise. Certainly the old gods were on their side, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks. "They have the sword then?"

Varys fidgeted a bit, looking down at his hands. "I am afraid they do not. They came immediately to tell that they had made passage enough for a small person to move through, yet they did not know which sword would be the correct one." The man looked as if he felt that it were somehow his own fault. "The men went above hoping to get someone who would have the correct information. By their description, they had opened to a cavern much like this one, with statues upon statues lining the walls, each with their own sword." He paused and added, "Albeit, far more ancient and ruinous. We can hardly blame them for their uncertainty. Yet before an order could be made to retrieve the sword, we heard the horns and all was forgotten."

Sansa made a sound of frustration and screwed up her face, attempting to remember. Bran had said that the sword belonged to Bran the Builder. _Bran the Builder had been…oh damn it all, why had I not listened more attentively to my histories?_ She could not organize her thoughts, the stress of the moment weighing heavily upon her, and she sighed in frustration.

"My lady?" Lord Varys was saying, concern in his eyes as he watched Sansa battle within herself. "Do you think you could identify it? I'm afraid we may have no other choice. I certainly know little of the Stark lineage and," he looked down and placed his hands on his stomach, "I am not what could be described as a 'small person.'" He smiled apologetically.

Sansa's stomach turned as she thought of crawling through a small space in the deep, dark earth. She swallowed hard, hoping the dim lighting would hide the shade of fear which had crossed over her face. She glanced toward the entrance, still open, with the guards standing sentry. She could ask one of them, yet even as she thought it, she knew it was unwise. They were needed there and she was not. She was a Stark, a learned woman able to read the inscriptions, and they were not. Then she thought of Sandor, fighting for life above her and clenched her teeth.

"I will go," she nodded decisively at Varys. "Will you come with me? I feel it would be…unwise to go alone." The thought of crawling through a narrow channel of earth and rock nauseated her once again, and she struggled to retain control of her body.

Varys nodded, "Of course, I will come. Missandei." He addressed the foreign beauty who was standing politely some feet away, not intending to eavesdrop on their conversation, yet unable to ignore it. "Will you join us as well? Three living souls may help to ease the discomfort of being in the presence of so many long dead." The eunuch looked about him almost pathetically, his hands hidden where they joined under his wide sleeves. "I hear the excavation was a long way into the caves. It would be wise to have two with the ability to crawl through and read the inscriptions in case one cannot complete the task." Sansa cringed, ashamed that her hesitation had given away her fear so completely.

Missandei approached them gracefully, her hands clasped in front of her, and a submissive smile upon her face. Sansa had interacted but little with the foreigner, yet she knew her story, and thought the woman must be a gentle soul. She nodded now at Sansa and Varys before speaking. "Yes, I will come with you." She glanced back toward the entrance as Sansa had done a moment ago. "We should go quickly, I'm afraid we have little time."

Sansa felt like a fool for standing about talking when such a dire need was before them. She nodded, and without another word she gathered up her skirts, turned and began to head deeper into the caves, the eunuch and the lovely advisor to the queen following close behind.

All of the torches had been kept alight for days along the earthen walls because of the ongoing excavation, and Sansa was grateful for it now. She hurried along the passageways, the cold breath of the caves sending chills down her neck. She had not feared the crypts for some time, especially after her liberation from Ramsay and her return to Winterfell. They were part of home, part of her family history, and they made her feel safe. Still, she had never ventured more than several hundred feet into them, and the thought of passing by the graves of men thousands of years dead now made her skin crawl.

It seemed as if they'd been hurrying for ages, down passage after passage, each one turning off of the last through a smaller walkway, before opening up into a larger cavern where the tombs and statues once again lined the walls. They went on like this, stopping only once to catch their breaths, during which time Varys coughed out, "I am—certainly—not as—young as I—once was." He held his chest dramatically as he heaved, attempting to catch his breath.

Sansa looked about her at the statues then, the faces crumbling, the direwolves at their feet looking more like lumps of stone. "We must be getting close. This stone is ancient, and the names are mostly unrecognizable to me." She began to move again and Varys had no choice but to follow. For all the time he'd spent in the dark tunnels beneath the Red Keep, he could not be comfortable here with the eyes of all the dead Starks upon him. This was different. There was nothing living beneath the Red Keep, only whispers of which he had been the master. Underneath Winterfell the air felt like old magic, old gods of the North, and he shivered as he remembered the same eerie feeling he'd had when he'd heard the voice in the sorcerer's flames as a child.

They walked single file through the next passageway, the vaulted cavern having ended behind them, but stopped abruptly at an exclamation of surprise from Sansa. She'd nearly tripped over a pickaxe, and when the other two rounded the bend they saw a great pile of collapsed earth and rock, with various digging implements lying about, temporarily forgotten. The torches on the wall illuminated the impenetrable mountain of rubble in front of them. Then Missandei pointed. "Look!"

They turned their attention to where she directed it and saw a small opening in the rock. The men had done well, working at a section of the mound which would not cause further collapse upon excavation due to the positioning of larger stones around it. They had created a crawlspace, wide enough as they'd said, for a small person to make it through. Sansa crouched to peer into it. It ended in darkness.

Her stomach twisted with dread. "Does it go all the way through, for certain?"

Varys responded by pulling the torch from the wall and crouching before the tunnel. He inserted the flame as far as it would go, peering underneath his arm as he held it extended into the hole. "Yes, my lady, I can see where it opens up again, into another cavern like the others. It is no more than the length of a man's body lying down." He stood up again. "I cannot fit, to be sure, but either of you could."

Sansa nodded and took the torch from him, steeling herself for what she must do.

"I will go with you." Sansa spun her head around and faced Missandei who was smiling at her. _Thank the gods!_ Sansa nodded, grateful to not be alone in the next cavern.

"Thank you," she managed, before turning back to the crawlspace and crouching.

She pushed the torch into it, her arm stretched out in front of her, and was able to see clearly into the opening beyond. Still, the fear rushed over her. _Remember Ramsay, remember what you have already endured. This is just a tunnel._ She tried to still her quaking body, the fear washing over her as she began to squeeze through the cold stone opening. _Oh gods, I can't breathe!_ She began gasping loudly, clenching her eyes in an attempt to calm the panic that threatened to overtake her. The walls seemed to be collapsing around her and she felt as if she couldn't move. She tried to crawl further and swallowed a sob.

"I am here, my lady." Sansa felt a hand close around her ankle, a gentle touch from warm fingers and she calmed slightly. Sansa inhaled deeply, filling her lungs and reminding herself that fear was the enemy. _Just a little further._ She swallowed hard and scooted again until the hand holding the torch fell out of the tunnel as she reached the end of the crawlspace. She tossed the torch out into the room ahead of her, allowing space to climb out with both hands. When she was through, she stood and unrumpled her dress, brushing the dirt briefly from her hands and clothing, before turning around to help Missandei to her feet. Their eyes met, the fear of the previous moment ebbing away slowly, and then both turned to look at the cavern around them.

It was just like the ones before in structure and design, only it felt more ominous because of its seclusion. "Have you come through all right, my ladies?" Varys' voice echoed off of the chamber strangely as he called through the narrow tunnel.

"Yes, we will hurry back, Lord Varys," Sansa called, before picking up the torch again and moving quickly through the vast cavern, Missandei close behind.

The statues had been steadily appearing more and more as ruins as they'd come through the crypts, and now they hardly even resembled persons. The women rushed along past the crumbled stones as quickly as they could, with an urgency to not only find the sword, but to leave this secret cave of the ancient Stark dead to rest in peace. The light of the single torch cast dancing shadows across the walls and stones, and Sansa wondered how many thousands of years it had been since these statues had been seen by a living soul.

They reached the end of the cavern and Sansa saw with dismay that there was yet another passageway leading beyond this one. _Gods, when will it end?_ She glanced at her companion who nodded slightly; they must go on. Sansa rushed ahead, the torch extended in front of her and rounded the next bend. Another cavern opened up ahead of them, just as before, the ceiling high and vaulted, the air cold and silent. Sansa heard her own heart beating in her ears and willed herself to calm down, the feeling of nausea again beginning to overwhelm her. She didn't know how much longer she could keep her sanity in this ancient, cold, terrifying chamber of death.

They ran along, the ruins on either side dancing with the light, and Sansa had to actively control her imagination lest she begin to see movement coming from the tombs. It was not entirely impossible for the dead even here to arise. It was the first time she'd considered the possibility of such a thing and her breath caught suddenly in her throat, horror overtaking her. If the Night King could raise the dead in the Stark tombs, they would all be doomed. She glanced sideways as she hurried. _The tombs are sealed…even if they should be awakened, they could not break through. Besides, most of them must be dust by now._ This thought gave her some small courage and she pushed ahead, trying to ignore the mental images arising of her father's bones bursting from the grave to quench the life from her.

Flashes of iron swords could be seen under the dirt and debris in front of each ruin, some still lain across what would have been the knees of the statue, others fallen to the floor after the stone had crumbled. There were no inscriptions which could be read, having long ago worn away, and there was no way to distinguish one Stark king from another. Sansa chewed her bottom lip and hoped there would be some way to know.

The torchlight finally reached the back wall, and Sansa realized the chamber ended. There was no passageway leading off of this great underground room. Instead, at the far end rose what appeared to be another statue, though it was larger than all the others, and instead of being on either side of the chamber, it was in the center, against the earth and stone at the end of the great crypts of Winterfell. The form of this statue took her breath away, for it was nearly complete, even though it must have been far older than all the others. She approached and saw it appeared to be carved out of a different kind of stone. Somehow—instinctively—she knew it was weirwood. She remembered her maester telling her once that dead weirwood became stone. This stone seemed to have lasted through the destruction of time much better than that of the previous statues they'd passed, so that even the features could still be made out. A strong face looked down upon the young women, the look of Stark clearly in his features as he towered above them, seated upon his throne. His direwolf was the size of a horse, curled in front of his feet. And there, etched in the stone, the words could still be read. Sansa was frozen in awe.

 _Brandon Stark_

 _King of Winter_

 _"Death did not prevail."_

"Death did not prevail?" Missandei read the inscription curiously. "Why should these words be written upon a grave? Did the man not die?"

Sansa handed the other woman the torch and reached her hand toward the statue. Across his knees lay a sword, covered with thousands of years of dust, yet still intact. Her fingers closed around the hilt and she lifted it, shaking the dirt from it. It looked like an ordinary sword—although rather larger—but it was certainly not as she imagined Lightbringer would look.

"I think it means that he prevailed over the dead. The army of the dead during The Long Night." She met Missandei's eyes, "With this."

Although the sword must have sat in the same place for millennia, there was no rust upon it, and Sansa could not say what metal it was made from. It was old, and there was nothing which stood out to her about it which would make it exemplary, but it was still whole.

"This is the sword then?" Missandei asked, feeling as if she already knew the answer.

Sansa nodded, and suddenly a tremor shook the earth around them. The women gasped, their hands moving to the stone to support them. It stopped as suddenly as it had started, and Sansa locked eyes with Missandei, scarcely daring to breathe.

"We must get this to Jon."

They picked up their skirts and ran.

 **Keep the reviews coming, you know I love them! We'll be hearing from all of our favorite people in the chapters to come!**


	24. Chapter 24

**I'm so excited to see your reviews and comments, I'm thrilled you're loving it. I wrote this chapter differently, just laying out each perspective separately and then putting them in a certain order after. I wanted to wait until I got everything written before posting so that I didn't accidentally write myself into a corner. The timeline will jump a bit from one character to the next as we have to go back to the same moment, but from a new perspective. It's a long one!**

 **As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. Please bear with me through the end you won't be disappointed!**

Chapter 24

Sansa stumbled along the yawning caverns, running from her terror, running toward her terror. She was surrounded by fear, and it clouded her mind, overwhelming her. She stopped abruptly, dropped the sword and doubled over, clutching her heaving stomach. Missandei, who almost ran into her, placed a gentle hand on Sansa's back, and lifted her hair away as she retched her morning meal onto the packed earth and stone floor of the crypts. Sansa coughed and spluttered, choking back a sob as the last of her stomach was emptied.

"My lady," Missandei said softly, pulling Sansa gently to a standing position when she was finished, and pushing loose hairs behind her ears. "Here," she offered Sansa a handkerchief to wipe her face and Sansa took it gratefully, coughing and spluttering. Tears flowed from her eyes as she sniffled into the square of cloth, and looked at Missandei in the dim torchlight. The darker woman had fear in her features as well, but she had a gentle strength about her which comforted Sansa.

"I'm sorry," Sansa finally choked out, blowing her nose into the handkerchief. "We must keep going. I'll be all right." She held her stomach and took a deep breath. closing her eyes briefly.

Missandei nodded, "Yes, my lady. Come." She took the lead, pulling Sansa along by one arm, the torch in the other. Sansa picked up the sword again and followed, feeling somewhat improved after emptying her stomach, though a bit lightheaded. They soon reached the crawlspace where Varys had been waiting anxiously for their return.

"Oh, gracious!" he whimpered, his round face peering at them from the other end of the small passage. "I was beginning to fear the worst!" Sansa took a deep breath and followed Missandei through the tunnel, focusing on just reaching the other side. She found it was much easier going back than it had been going forward, and in a moment she was crawling out onto the earth. She rose, dusted herself off, and the trio hurried back toward the surface.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tyrion took the steps two at a time, surprising even himself as it was no easy task for a dwarf. Having already checked the main solar which the lad often spent time in, he had decided for the boy's chambers and was heading that way as quickly as possible. So far he had not encountered anyone save one young stableboy who'd looked to be on the verge of tears, and had continued running past him—despite Tyrion's repeated calls for his attention—in the direction of the crypts.

His chest heaved as he reached the top of the stairs and burst through the first door, not bothering to knock. The room was empty, as was the smaller antechamber behind it, and Tyrion cursed in frustration. He ran his fingers through his hair, and went back the way he'd come, wracking his brain for the answer to where the Stark boy might have been that morning before the horn had sounded.

He moved out onto the balcony which overlooked the courtyard, scanning the castle as far as he could see, hoping for some kind of clue. The men on the battlements were shouting, throwing flaming buckets of oil and loosing fiery arrows at their targets beyond the walls. Tyrion's heart leapt to his throat. _Shit, they're already at the walls. Shit, shit, shit._ He scanned the battlements, looking for any sign of the enemy breaking over the walls, when he caught sight of his brother. He would know that golden hair and masculine physique anywhere; he'd spent half his life in envy of it. Jaime was shouting commands at the men, pacing the walls. Since his good sword arm had been lost, his authority and battle savvy would be of much more use in the fight than his sheer force.

Tyrion made for the walls, and once he'd reached them, began quickly ascending the stairs to the battlements. He pushed past the men who were too absorbed in their tasks anyway to notice the dwarf. "Jaime!" he called out, when he was in range, and his brother whipped his head about in Tyrion's direction. Tyrion hurried toward him, but before he could reach his brother, his gaze shifted beyond the walls, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes and mouth opened wide as he took in the scene which played out on the frozen expanse of the North before him.

Thousands upon thousands of dead men were approaching the castle, portions of their ranks scorched with the fire from the dragons, but those who had fallen were quickly swarmed over so that the gaps were filled as quickly as they were made. Drogon was making passes in the distance, shooting flame where it was still possible to do so without harming the armies which had already engaged on both sides of Winterfell. To his right he could see the Unsullied forces had surrounded the castle, and to the left it was the armies of the North. They held the lines, preventing the dead from approaching the castle at any point save one. The Dothraki were plowing into their center, attacking from all sides, riding through, cutting down as many as they could.

And yet, the dead came. Pouring in from the North, there was more of them than Tyrion thought possible. A few giants had been amongst the ranks, but it appeared that Drogon had targeted them first, and they lay smoldering, the dead moving around them in wide circles to avoid the flames. Tyrion observed quickly that there was not a single White Walker to be seen, though he had been searching for them in the crowd. In the distance, blue and yellow flame battled in the skies, yet it was too distant to clearly make out the dragon fight. All this he took in in the space of a few moments.

Jaime had reached him, placing his hand on his little brother's shoulder. "Tyrion, what is it? Why are you not in the crypts?" he demanded.

Tyrion tore his gaze from the dead who were already scrambling up the walls, creating a ladder of bodies as they climbed over one another frantically—rabidly—in an attempt to reach the top. "It's the boy, Bran," he said finally, meeting Jaime's gaze. "He is not in the crypts. He must be found, if they get over…" He let his voice trail off, and saw his point clearly registering in his brother's eyes.

Jaime looked over his shoulder and called for Bronn who'd been standing several feet away, hearing everything. He transferred the command to the upjumped sellsword, but Bronn eyed the two of them warily. "And you reckon you'll be all right by yourselves? I've seen both of you fight and I wouldn't place a bet on neither one."

Jaime shrugged, "As long as you keep those bastards from getting over, we won't need to, will we?" He clapped the man on the shoulder and Bronn scowled, but nodded. "Right then you sons of bitches, we're going to bury these dead fuckers once and for all! Notch!"

Jaime turned back to Tyrion. "Come, we will find him."

"Draw!"

The Lannister men raced down the stairs toward the castle in search of Brandon Stark, the sounds of battle fading behind them.

"Loose!"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandor's sword sliced through two corpses simultaneously, severing one completely in half and removing the head of the other. Sweat glistened on his forehead, despite the cold, yet he continued, fighting for life. He was in the ranks of the Northern armies, holding one side of the castle to prevent the army of the dead from reaching the gates of Winterfell. They had engaged the dead almost immediately, hoping to fight their way through to the Walkers, yet Sandor had noticed some time ago that there were none in sight. It seemed that the Others had decided to weaken their foes by sending in the dead first, not risking themselves if it was not necessary.

Clegane risked a glance to his left where Jon was fighting. He'd yelled at the fool to stay in Winterfell. If he was the Prince that was Promised he couldn't promise shit with a sword in his belly. But the boy had the damn Northmen blood in his veins and they were nothing if not stubborn. He thought of Sansa briefly before driving his sword through the face of a wight, and stabbing the next through the chest with his obsidian dagger.

Sandor glanced ahead and to his right where the dead had begun climbing the walls. So far the men on the battlements had managed to keep them at bay, yet they'd grown more numerous and certainly the men could not hold them back forever. This was madness. They needed a plan. They needed to get at the Walkers now so the dead would fall when their masters did, as had happened before in their journey beyond the wall.

Sandor shouted at Beric, who was fighting next to him, and jerked his sword to the climbing wights. "We have to hold the castle from inside! If they breach the walls, we're lost!" He growled, swiping viciously at the ever-oncoming horde of corpses.

Beric nodded in agreement, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm as he slashed through a foe with his flaming sword. Together with Brienne, Jorah, Tormund, and several other choice warriors, Sandor pushed back through their ranks toward the castle gates. He grabbed a commander and shouted for him to hold the line, telling the man that they would take a host inside to hold the castle against a breach. The man nodded and shouted his men forward, closing in the gap that the others had made.

Sandor moved toward Jon almost as an afterthought, knowing they needed him alive, and grabbed the younger man by the shoulders. Jon turned about quickly, nearly slicing through Sandor before he'd realized who it was. "You're coming with me!" Sandor bellowed at his face. "We're going to hold the castle from inside, the dead are about to breach the walls!" He pointed with his sword before cutting down two more enemies.

Jon shook his head and continued slashing Longclaw through the oncoming foes. Sandor growled impatiently, "Dammit you fucking cunt, you can't fight forever! You'll tire before long and they'll run right over you! Then we're all fucked!" He was shouting over the chaos of the battle, fighting as he did so. "We need to get you to that fucking sword so you can end this!" He landed a right hook with his sword arm, smashing the hilt through the jaw of an overeager dead man.

Sandor knew he'd broken through Jon's stubborn exterior, as the realization of the truth of Sandor's words became clear on his face. Jon shouted in rage, swiping through the two wights within reach, and then fell back with Sandor, a look of frustrated defeat on his face. "Hold the line!" Jon shouted to the men, hoping to not appear to be deserting them. "We will find the Walkers and we will destroy them!"

Shouts of assent from the Northmen faded behind them as they ran toward the gates. They gestured for other soldiers to join them, gathering a force about one hundred strong to fortify the interior of the castle. As they approached the gates, the men drew up suddenly, stopping in their tracks and holding their breath as two huge direwolves sat in their path, a pack of wolves snarling behind them.

Jon was the only one who was unfazed, and he stepped forward, extending his hand. "Ghost, to me!"

The white wolf padded forward, his red eyes on Jon and he licked the hand of his master. Nymeria followed, sniffing Jon's glove and then sitting on her haunches. She was the leader of her pack, and he knew the other wolves followed her. He turned to face the rest and nodded, then shouted up for the men to admit them to the castle.

The gates swung open, allowing the host of men and beasts through the walls, before quickly closing behind them. Shouts of terror were coming from the battlements on the opposite side of the castle and the men rushed immediately toward them, the wolves following. The dead were climbing over the walls, and the men were struggling to push them back. As soon as one was cut down, two more took their place, scrambling and clawing at the stone, screeching in otherworldly tones at the living men. Most of the new soldiers were sent up to the battlements as reinforcements while the rest remained below, ready to pick off the dead as they fell into the courtyard from the walls.

Jon was running his hands through his hair, taking advantage of the moment of rest to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. "We need to engage them!" He shouted, "We need to discover where they are, the damned cowards!" He paced back and forth, glancing nervously up at the walls where the dead continued to trickle over, still being cut down by his men before they could get far. It was only a matter of time before they would be overwhelmed. "We need Daenerys back here, we need Bran! He could tell us where they are and we can take the dragon to them!" He searched the skies in vain, frustrated.

"We need the sword," Sandor said, approaching Jon. "Were the men ever able to break through the stone in the crypts?"

Understanding dawned on Jon's face as he remembered the crew. He closed his eyes in frustration with himself. So eager to begin the battle, he'd ignored their one hope for victory, not sending even a single man into the crypts to retrieve the sword that they needed. "They did." He muttered through clenched teeth. "And then the horns sounded and everything else was forgotten."

Sandor growled in frustration, "We must send someone to retrieve it. Now."

Jon nodded, clearly upset with himself for his rashness, but they began to make their way toward the crypts. Before they'd gone more than a few paces, Drogon's roar sounded from overhead and in a flash he was descending, snow and debris blown about by his leathered wings. He touched down on the earth in the next moment, and it shook beneath them.

Drogon roared again and shook his great head, twisting it around toward his back. Jon sprinted around to where Dany would have been seated and saw a blue and white crumpled form, sprawled against the dragon's scales. Sandor followed Jon around and immediately began to help him with his burden as he attempted to carry her off the dragon.

For it was her, Daenerys, naked from head to toe, her long white hair the only adornment left on her body. Yet it also wasn't her. Her skin had become a shade of blue, frozen to the touch. She hung limp and lifeless in Jon's arms.

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"Dracarys!" She'd said the word so many times, she doubted she needed to say it again, yet it gave her a sense of purpose, as if she were helping more than just riding. The dead men on the ground exploded in flames as they soared past them, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Since the horn had sounded, she'd done her best to take out as many of the dead as possible, yet they seemed to just keep coming endlessly from the North.

A dragon shriek pierced the air in the distance and Dany jerked her head up, alarmed. Her two other children—the living beast and the fallen one—were battling in the skies. Bran would be doing everything possible while fighting as Rhaegal to prevent Viserion's reaching the castle. Dany shuddered to think what would happen if he did reach it, how quickly the walls would explode and crumble at his fiery breath, which had now become so blue and foreign to her. She made another pass, trying to focus on her job at the moment, which was to continue to lessen their numbers.

Daenerys had been scanning the battlefield from the sky for the Walkers since the start of the fighting, but had yet to see a single one. During their war councils in the days prior, they'd talked of the possibility of the Others sending only the dead to the battle and holding back themselves, mitigating the risk of coming within reach of the dragonglass and Valyrian steel blades of their enemy. They'd not thought it was likely, however, since the experience they'd already had with the dead had always been with the White Walkers present as well, fighting in their midst. They'd speculated that perhaps their magic required them to be present with the wights that they'd reanimated.

Dany set her mouth in firm line. Not so, apparently, for they were nowhere that she could discern. Another screech brought her head back up swiftly, for there was pain in the cry, and her brow furrowed in concern for her child. They were closer now; Dany could see that both dragons had been lashing at the other, clawing and biting in addition to breathing flame. Rhaegal appeared to be wounded, but he'd gotten a direct hit of flame to Viserion's wing, and both were faltering in the skies.

The flame seemed not to be taking hold, and Viserion moved in again to Rhaegal, gnashing his great teeth, snapping at the neck of his brother. The sound of their collision was powerful, and Rhaegal shrieked again in pain, overpowered by the wight. He began to lose altitude, flapping awkwardly toward the earth, crying out for his mother.

Dany clenched her teeth, the pain of his cries searing a hole through her heart. She pushed aside Jon's warning to not engage the Night King. She had to help him; Viserion was moving in for the kill. Dany spurred Drogon ahead and in a moment, before Viserion knew what was upon him, searing, orange flame engulfed him. Daenerys saw the Night King whip his head about in surprise at the ambush, pulling Viserion's attention around to the new threat. The wight dragon was in flames, and Drogon slashed his great claws into the rotting flesh of his brother's underside, tearing away chunks that fell hundreds of feet to the earth below. He roared loudly and Dany's face looked murderous atop him as she exacted her vengeance on those who had harmed her child.

The Night King was losing. Drogon's flames continued to engulf the wight with each new breath, his jaws tearing flesh from its body. Drogon had always been the largest—the alpha—and he had the upper hand now. Viserion shrieked, whipping his flaming head around in one final attempt at retaliation, engulfing Drogon and Dany in a column of blue flame. Dany was not afraid; she was the blood of the dragon and flame could not harm her. She felt her clothing smoldering, the fabric falling away from her as the wind whipped around her body. The flames dissipated around her as Viserion fell from the sky, shrieking and continuing to breathe flame as he fell. He was burning completely in the orange-yellow flame of his brother. Drogon dove with him, continuing to breathe fire on the wight as they went, when Dany felt a sudden, sharp pain in her chest.

She looked down at herself and gasped, the pain overwhelming as it shot needles through her body, igniting all of her nerves simultaneously. She screamed in agony, feeling as if she were both freezing and burning alive at once. Through clouded vision she saw the Night King vault off the back of Viserion just seconds before the burning wight collided with the earth, skidding hundreds of feet through the army of the dead. _I hope the fall kills him,_ she thought, her head spinning, gasping in pain. The last thing she remembered was the Night King's cold, blue gaze fixing on her. Then the world went black.

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"I've found him!" Tyrion shouted toward his brother who was running frantically through the other rooms in the tower. Bran was in his chair, facing the open window which looked out upon all of the North. _I should have known he'd be here, he spends much of his time in this room._ It was a kind of study used often by the maester, with books and scrolls, eyepieces and maps, and Bran enjoyed the quiet view as well as the reading. Just as Tyrion suspected, he was lost to the world, his eyes showing only white. Jaime burst into the room, his breath coming fast and heavy. "Well," he panted, as he took in the scene before him. "Glad to see at least one occupant of this castle is enjoying a leisurely morning."

Tyrion could not help but chuckle. It was a gift that the Lannister men possessed to always see the humor in a situation, even if many around them often did not appreciate it. He grasped the boy's chair by the handles and began wheeling him out. Jaime stood in Tyrion's way, looking down at him with one brow raised in question.

Tyrion huffed, suddenly exasperated. "I'm sorry, did you want to wheel him out?" He fixed his brother with his gaze, wishing he could be just a touch more serious at a time like this.

"Oh yes," Jaime responded, almost smirking. "Shall we just wheel him down the stairs? I admit, if the circumstances were different, I would enjoy the spectacle, but we're supposed to be helping him, not maiming him further."

Tyrion looked sheepish, "Right. I suppose I did forget about the stairs, which is a wonder seeing as Winterfell is nothing but stairs." He looked apologetically at his older brother. "Well, you'll have to carry him then." Jaime nodded, and went down on one knee before the chair, grasping the boy with his left hand.

"Help me on my right side, I can't get a grip." Between the two of them, they were able to hoist Bran onto Jaime's shoulder and they left the room, Tyrion leading the way cautiously down the stairs.

They moved out into the courtyard and gaped. The dead had breached the wall. The men within the castle walls were fighting them back, yet many and more were coming over. Tyrion spun around and fixed his brother's gaze with his own, urgency in his voice. "We have to go, now, before they overwhelm us."

Jaime looked slightly worried, "Tyrion, I cannot fight like this." Bran was hoisted over his right shoulder, and while his sword hand was free, it would be of very little use in a real attack. Still, he drew his sword awkwardly.

Tyrion remembered the weapons Moss had given him. "I have something I can use to hold them off, and hopefully we can get the attention of some others to watch our back. But there's no more time to waste, we have to go now!"

They went.

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Sansa reached the entrance to the crypts and leaned briefly against the cold stone walls, breathing heavily. She must get the sword to Jon.

"My lady," Missandei approached behind her, breathless herself from their run through the caves. "Send someone else, you cannot go out yourself."

Sansa faced her and there was a strength in her features again, the determination of the lady of Winterfell. "Who should I send? We are all women and children and the weak." She shook her head. "No, I am going. I have to know it reaches him, or we are all lost."

One of the Children approached her then, the female, and put a sphere in her hand. "Take this, it is a weapon. It will set the dead aflame." She closed her green hands around Sansa's white one. "I wish we could go with you, but we have been forbidden to leave," she looked down, ashamed.

"And for good reason," Sansa affirmed. "You are the last of your kind, we must keep you safe." She shared a sad smile with the Child.

The male approached them, carrying a sack over his shoulder which was full of the small, earth colored spheres. "I will go with you to the doors and leave these outside. Your men can use them in their fight." Even now they could hear the shouts of the battle and the clash of steel on steel above their heads. Sansa nodded and moved toward the great barred doors.

It took a few moments and several people to help open the great many locks and barriers which had been put in place at the entrance of the crypts. Finally the doors were pushed open and light flooded the cave, causing Sansa to shield her face with her arm as her eyes adjusted. She clasped the sphere in one hand and the hilt of Lightbringer with the other. When the doors were opened enough, she swallowed hard, gritted her teeth, and stepped through warily. Moss quickly left the sack outside of the doors and went back in, nodding to Sansa, before closing the doors once again.

Everywhere was chaos. Steel sang loudly colliding with steel, the dead screeched and the screams of the living men all reached her ears at once. She had tucked her skirts up into her belt when she'd been running in the crypts, allowing her greater movement, yet she found herself cursing them entirely now. It was no wonder Arya hated them; a woman was useless for movement in skirts. She stayed low and scanned the courtyard as she scooted along against the wall, searching for signs of Jon or Sandor or anyone she could trust to deliver the sword.

A corpse fell just feet from where she stood, its upper body severed completely. The head and arms were still animated, grasping and screeching. Sansa gasped and moved away quickly, trying to keep her head clear in the chaos around her.

A moment later her eyes fell on a familiar form, huge in the crowd, slashing through the dead as if they were mere weeds. Alongside him was the man from the Brotherhood, the one who'd reportedly died many times. But she didn't care about anyone else in that moment. Sandor was alive, thank the gods! If she could get the sword to him, he would see that it would get to where it needed to go.

 _But how?_ Sandor was in the fray, there was no way she could walk up to him, tap his shoulder and say, "Here you go." She chewed her lip nervously, the adrenaline coursing through her again making her breath come raggedly and her mind race. Before she'd settled on a course of action, a wight caught her scent, screeched, and began hobbling toward her. Sansa's heart raced, yet she fought to keep calm. _You have two weapons, use one._ She looked down quickly at the sphere in her right hand, closed her eyes briefly to steady her nerves, and threw it toward her target.

The wight was several yards from her, and the sphere had barely grazed his shoulder before it burst into flames, a mini explosion that sent pieces of the creature flying through the air. Sansa ducked her head away from the debris, breathing a sigh of relief that she'd managed to hit her target.

The sound of the explosion drew Sandor's attention, and now she heard her name yelled in shock. "Sansa?!" He had turned around momentarily, stunned to see her out in the open and trying to process what it meant.

Sansa held up her sword sheepishly and mouthed "Jon," hoping he understood.

It only took a split second, his focus broken long enough for a blade to find its way through the weakness of his armor. Sandor jerked forward, shock flashing across his eyes, before he flung himself around and sliced through three dead men in one stroke.

Sansa shrieked in horror, covering her mouth with a shaking hand as blood poured over Sandor's armor in the back, the hilt of a dirk buried between the shoulder and backplate of his armor. Lord Beric saw and began pulling the now staggering man away from the fight, slashing behind him with his flaming sword to remove the enemies which followed them. Several of the wolves instinctively moved in, guarding their backs from the approaching wights. Beric shuffled Sandor quickly to a little alcove near where Sansa crouched and helped Sandor to sit, eyeing the blade that was buried in his back with a grim expression.

Sansa was trembling violently. _No, no, no this can't be happening!_ "Sandor!" her voice sounded foreign and she ran to him, falling to her knees and cupping his face in her hand. The tears fell freely from her eyes.

He looked confused, his brows furrowed. "Little bird…" he croaked, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He weakly raised a hand to take her face in it.

"Oh no, no, this is my fault," she sobbed, pulling him into her chest, kissing his forehead. Her tears wet his face as she kissed him, running her fingers gently over the burned skin. He was fighting to keep his eyes open. "You'll be all right, you're hard to kill," she choked as she said it, trying desperately to believe it. "You said so yourself…" He coughed and blood splattered across her bodice. Sansa felt her stomach wrenching in agony, and a deep groan of dread escaped her lips.

Sandor looked up at her, his eyes struggling to focus. "My…little bird." He choked on the blood and Sansa sobbed, wiping it away with her hands, frantically clutching at his neck and hair; desperately holding onto him with all of her heart. _No, gods please! I need him. Don't do this to me!_

"I'll—I'll keep you safe." His rasp sounded pained and weak. Sandor smiled the smile she loved, yet this time it was red with his own blood. Then the last breath left his lips and he was gone.

Everything stopped around her. Her ears rang with the sounds of the courtyard that she did not hear. The scream which rose from her breast sounded like nothing she'd ever heard before. It wrenched up from her gut, deep and wailing, loud and heartrending. She sobbed into his hair, his face pressed against her chest. "Sandor, please," she wept. "Please, no! You can't leave me!" She pulled his face back and looked into his glassy, unseeing eyes, feeling as if her world had come crashing down around her. "Gods, no!" She wept bitterly.

There was no pain like this, no amount of flaying from Ramsay or beatings from Joffrey could compare to the gutwrenching pain of losing the man she loved. She rocked back and forth in her sorrow, cradling her husband and wailing, completely overcome with her grief.

Beric took over then, pulling Sandor from her arms despite her screams. She begged for him to leave her be, but he was undeterred. He drew the dirk from Sandor's body and laid him in the snow on his back, which was swiftly turning a deep, blood-stained maroon. Sansa was on her knees, retching again, heaving up what little had been left in her stomach. She choked through the sobs, feeling as if she'd lost all will to live. There was nothing left but rage—rage for the creatures that had taken Sandor from her. She stood and wiped her mouth with her sleeve, stepping past Beric who was crouched over Sandor mumbling, and gathering up Lightbringer. She didn't care if she'd never swung a sword in her life, she didn't care about anything anymore.

The first wight that came toward her was little more than a skeleton, gnashing his teeth and flailing his rotting arms about as he ran. She screamed in rage, gripping the hilt of Lightbringer with both hands as she swung with all her might, crashing the blade through the ribcage and sending bones flying. She was heaving, the tears still stinging her eyes, her stomach in knots, but her blind fury drove her. She suddenly understood Sandor, blinded by anger when he'd fought. She understood Arya, she understood the soldier who was momentarily fearless and powerful through the rage that coursed through his blood.

Two more wights spotted her and came staggering in her direction. She remembered the bag of spheres then and dashed to it, grabbing one and quickly chucking it between them. It landed in the snow and exploded, taking one out completely and maiming the other. She shrieked in fury as she charged the one still standing, swiping through its neck with the heavy sword, and stumbling onto the snow with the effort. She was gasping now, exhausted, sweat and blood and tears all mingled on her face as more of the dead approached. She sagged a little, feeling the hopelessness seep over her. She pulled herself to her feet slowly, suddenly exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for eternity.

The first wight was closing in and she swiped at it, only grazing the shoulder, and the tip of the heavy sword plunged into the snow. The dead woman reached her, clawing and gnashing at her skin. Sansa screamed, shoving at it, the rotting flesh squishing under her fingers as the nails scratched at her arms, tearing open her dress. The sword was too long to use at such close range, but she pulled it up and held the edge with one hand, the hilt with the other as she pushed it lengthwise with all of her strength against the wight, trying to keep her at bay. She saw more of them coming out of the corner of her eye and set her teeth. She would be with her love in a moment. All the pain would end, it would be over soon.

A hand suddenly closed around the neck of the wight that clawed at her, and the entire creature was thrown across the yard, its bones shattering across the frozen earth. A flash of steel moved in front of her as the person took down the other dead men that approached, making short work of them, before turning back to help Sansa.

It was Sandor.

He closed the gap between them in an instant, capturing Sansa's astonished gasp with his mouth. He grasped the back of her head as he kissed her, pulling her into him as tightly as he could, never wanting to let her go. Sansa melted in his arms, inhaling the scent that she knew was his, the tears tasting salty in her mouth as she kissed him. When finally he drew back, she reached up hesitantly to touch his face, his blood still staining her fingers. His eyes were still brown, his skin still warm. Her voice cracked and her face contorted with emotion, "Oh Sandor!" she choked. "How—?" Her eyes searched his face in question, but it didn't matter now. He was here, he was alive, and he was hers. She threw herself into his arms and wept, the relief washing over her like a wave and she felt as if she might faint.

"Come, we must get you back." He grabbed her arm and began to pull her away.

"Wait, the sword!" Everything came back to her now, the mission which had brought her out of the crypts in the first place. She picked it up from where she'd dropped it and gave it to Sandor, looking into his eyes with urgency. "It must get to Jon. It's the one from the crypts. Lightbringer."

He nodded and took it, sheathing his other sword and grasping her arm with his free hand. Beric moved toward them after dispatching another wight. He put an arm on Sansa's shoulder and looked intensely at her from his one good eye. "The Lord of Light is not done with Sandor Clegane yet." He looked then at Sandor, nodded briefly, then returned to the fight.

Sandor drew her back around to the crypts where they nearly ran into a man carrying Bran, the doors already being opened for him. Tyrion was with him and looked pained, hardly noticing Sansa as he moved into the crypts ahead of the man who was carrying her brother. Sansa turned quickly back to her husband and gestured to the sack, "Take those, they're weapons from the Children. They'll explode with fire."

He looked and nodded in acknowledgement, then took her face in one hand again briefly. "I told you I'll keep you safe, little bird. You must stay in here now." He looked down at the scratches on her face and neck, the rips in her dress. "I almost lost you forever."

"I almost lost _you!_ Gods, I—," Sansa swallowed and shook her head, refusing to dwell on the horror of moments ago. She reached up and grasped his neck, pulling him in for a quick kiss. She savored the taste of him, reveling in the warmth of his mouth before drawing back and searching his eyes. "You must come back to me," she whispered. "I—I was meaning to tell you today before everything happened, but…" she faltered and looked down at his chest.

"What did you need to tell me, little bird?" He held her cheek in his hand pulling her face up to meet his eyes.

Sansa placed her hand over his, and rested the other on her abdomen. "I'm carrying our child."

Sandor was stunned and drew back for a moment, searching her eyes and then looking down at her waist in disbelief. "A—a child? My child?" He looked as if he couldn't believe such a thing could ever happen to him.

Sansa smiled weakly, drawing the hair back from the burned side of his cheek. "Yes, my love. Your child. Come back to us safely."

Sandor snatched his wife up, wrapping his arms about her shoulders and burying his face into her neck. He was overwhelmed with emotion, but knew it would have to wait. She had filled him with new life, as much as Beric had, and his heart swelled. He kissed her soft skin and then drew back, pulling her hand to his lips. "I will, then." He kissed her hand. "Go now."

Sansa squeezed his hand and rushed quickly back into the crypts, the doors booming shut behind her.

 **Oh my gosh, I cried while writing this. More to come soon! Review, review! :D**

 **Also, for you TV show watchers only, it does not take a priest/priestess to raise the dead, it is the Lord of Light who brings them back, and in the books Beric is actually the one who raises Catelyn Stark as Lady Stoneheart.**


	25. Chapter 25

**A shout out to my reviewer from Seville who leaves me reviews en Espanol. :P My Spanish is limited so while I get the gist of them, I usually have to take them to Google translate to get the full commentary. Thank you, thank you, so flattered! And to Magnus, thank you for always reviewing, and yes you're right, Beric did give his last life for Lady Stoneheart, but when I read up about it, in both instances (Priest or Beric) it's just called R'hllor's kiss or something and it appears to be the same thing happening either way, I guess just with Beric he'd done it too many times? I dunno, lol, but I figured it'd work in this case for my purposes.**

Chapter 25

Bran's unanimated body lay in the snow behind Jaime, allowing the maimed knight to fight unburdened. They'd been caught in the middle of the courtyard, unable to ward off the dead any longer as Tyrion's explosive weapons had already been utilized, buying them a few extra seconds. Now both Lannister men guarded the boy, Tyrion with a dragonglass knife he carried and Jaime with his Valyrian steel sword. The wights continued advancing, not allowing a break long enough to get the boy safely to the crypts.

Tyrion shouted for help from the Northmen fighting nearby, hoping someone would hear the urgency in his voice to get the three-eyed-raven to safety. He moved sideways quickly as a wight lunged at him, nearly losing his balance, but managing to swing his knife around and stab the creature in the leg, collapsing it instantly. In the moment's reprieve he saw a man running toward them, and he breathed a sigh of relief. _Thank the Gods!_ The soldier reached them in a moment and dispatched one of the wights quickly, even as more continued coming.

"No!" Tyrion shouted at him and pointed behind him at the boy sprawled in the snow. "Get Bran to the crypts!"

The man eyed the oncoming dead uncertainly for a moment before heeding Tyrion's command, running to Bran's side, grasping one arm, and jerking him up over his shoulder. Jaime was fighting furiously, three dead men attacking him all at once. "Go!" he shouted at Tyrion, who was gaping at the approaching onslaught of wights, far too many to fight at once. Jaime slashed frantically, just barely keeping the dead creatures off of him. "Go now, save the boy!"

The dread washed over Tyrion as he realized what was happening. He knew there was no other way; there was no more time. "Brother…" his voice broke and Jaime locked eyes with him for a split second, understanding passing between them. Sorrow overcame Tyrion as he turned and ran after the man carrying Bran, a painful lump rising in his throat.

He swallowed hard, steeling himself momentarily as a wight moved to attack Bran. Tyrion slashed at the monster just as its hands had closed around Bran's limp arms, killing it instantly. He jumped over the body and ran as fast as his short legs could go to the Northman who was now fighting again—awkwardly with his burden—as another foe attacked them. Tyrion approached from behind and buried his blade in the wight's back, the dragonglass instantly zapping the false life out of it. He looked beyond where the creature had fallen and saw the doors to the crypts just ahead of them. They were running again, and in the next moment he barreled into heavy wood and began pounding hard, shouting for those inside to open for Bran. Seconds crept by slowly, agonizingly, as the men pressed against the doors, watching all sides for enemies.

Finally the sounds of latches and bolts could be heard from the other side, and the doors were pushed open just as lady Sansa and Clegane rounded the corner. Tyrion wondered briefly why she had come back out of the crypts, but at the moment he could not bring himself to care. He glanced in the direction of where he'd left his brother, unable to see what had become of him. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat as his eyes misted over. He was grateful for the darkness of the cavern that greeted him.

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Brienne had been fighting almost non-stop since the dead had arrived and she was beginning to feel the exhaustion overwhelming her. She needed reprieve, if just for a single moment. She fought her way back from their current point of engagement until she was eventually able to edge into a corner, momentarily out of sight. She leaned against the wall and began to catch her breath, grateful for the moment to rest her sword arm.

When she opened her eyes again they settled on the other side of the castle where she saw a man fighting single handedly—rather awkwardly with his left hand. She gasped when she recognized him. _Ser Jaime! Gods, he is overwhelmed!_

Brienne shoved away from the wall and began running to him, yet even as she went she knew she could not hold back the numbers he fought. She looked about her frantically as she sprinted, hoping to find soldiers who could help her. Her eyes fell on Arya's great direwolf who was tossing her head side to side as she shredded a corpse in her jaws. _Please let her understand._ "Nymeria!" she shouted, and she saw the beast's head whip up at the sound of her name. Jaime was no longer standing, the creatures swarming over him.

 _No!_ Brienne choked, "NYMERIA!" she screamed again without looking back, praying to all the gods that the beast would help. She raised her great longsword when she was within range of the horde of dead, and swiped through several in one powerful blow. "Ahhhhh!" Brienne fought with rage and emotion, her blade swinging heavily, the sound of bone crunching under the edge of her sword. She could see Jaime still fighting from his position on the ground, his golden hand holding a wight away from his face, his sword swiping at another as he lay on his back in the reddened snow.

A flash of grey fur rushed past Brienne and the beast collided with the mass of dead men, taking out three in one bound. More wolves from her pack followed, and Brienne was able to fight her way through to Jaime.

She gasped when she saw him, covered in wounds, with blood leaking from a gash on his face and out of one nostril. Brienne had been a soldier most of her life, and she knew what his wounds meant. "Ser Jaime!" Her voice broke with emotion as she fell to her knees, lifting his upper body gently to a sitting position. "No, how did this happen?" She knew there was no use trying to hide the tears which had risen to her eyes unbidden.

"Brienne," he choked. The pain was clear in his voice, but he was Jaime Lannister so he still wore a weak grin. "I had to—get the Stark boy—to safety." His hand touched a gaping wound on his chest, blood gushing up from it. He looked at it and grimaced, then met her gaze again, his breath coming in strange gasps. "I have kept—my oath. To Lady Catelyn."

The tears flowed freely from Brienne's eyes as she searched his face, pain etched deeply in all of her features. "You didn't have to do this, Ser Jaime." She ripped off her gauntlet and began wiping at the blood that was running into his eyes.

Jaime reached up and gently touched her hand to still her movements. "Just Jaime—will do, Brienne." His voice was hoarse, thick with pain, but the grin persisted. He closed his eyes briefly, before looking into hers once more. "I had to redeem myself—so many mistakes." His eyes were unfocused for a long moment before he continued. "I pray the gods will—forgive me." He sucked in a ragged breath and winced, drawing a sob from Brienne. He tilted his head and contracted his brow, looking up at her, "I meant to tell you…your eyes are beautiful—Brienne. Like the sapphires—of Tarth." He smiled and traced his thumb across her temple weakly.

Brienne laughed through her sob, remembering how Jaime had saved her from rape with the lie about the sapphires on her home island—sapphires which could provide a hefty ransom from her lord father in exchange for her virtue. She stroked his cheek tentatively, before leaning in and placing a kiss on his forehead, her body shaking with emotion. She closed her eyes as her lips touched the warm skin, spilling her tears on his head. When she pulled away, Jaime reached up behind her head and pulled her into his lips.

It was a soft, gentle kiss—both hearts wrenching, both stomachs flipping in the moment. When Jaime pulled away he searched her eyes. "Thank you, Brienne—you reminded me—that I had not lost all of my honor." He squeezed her hand and his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I believe—you managed to make me—a better man." He chuckled weakly, his skin paler than she'd ever seen it. "I'll leave you—for—for that red-haired bastard but—don't let him—forget I—I would have had you first."

Brienne gathered him into her arms as the life left his body, weeping into the soft, golden hair of the man she loved.

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Sandor watched the doors close behind Sansa before he turned and prepared to head toward the great hall with Lightbringer, determined to get the sword to Jon. After Drogon had brought her cold and blue body back with him, Jon had carried the dragon queen numbly to the hall. He'd ignored Sandor after that, acting dazed and single-minded as he carried the lifeless woman away. When Sandor had pressed further about retrieving the sword he'd just stopped walking for a moment and said, "Right. Get the sword," before he'd disappeared behind the doors of the hall. After cursing the man, Sandor had begun heading for the crypts again, Drogon taking flight as he did so, yet he'd been prevented again from reaching them by a fresh onslaught of dead men. He'd been fighting his way slowly back toward them when Sansa had found him.

Now he suddenly remembered the sack of weapons she'd shown him and he reached down for the bag. He cautiously opened it and peered inside, slowly pulling out one of the small orbs. Sandor shrugged, _Might as well test them out before leaving them with these fools_. He turned to where the mass of corpses was greatest, where they'd been falling down off of the battlements into a heap before rushing at the living men in the castle. He looked at the sphere briefly before hurling it directly into their midst. The pile of corpses exploded, flames and body parts flying in all directions. Sandor raised his eyebrows and looked back down at the bag of weapons, chuckling a bit to himself, as shouts of surprise rose up from the fighting men. He fingered another sphere, rotating it briefly in his huge hand before tossing it in roughly the same location as the first. _Fuck if these aren't actually kind of fun._ The heap exploded again, the mass of flailing corpses left temporarily disabled and aflame.

He handed the sack off to a Northman who had watched him throw the second round. "Keep blowing those fuckers up," he growled, then continued in the direction of the hall, hacking at the dead who crossed his path.

Jon was emerging from the heavy doors just as Sandor approached. He seemed to have gathered his senses again; at least the determined, stubborn look had returned to his face. His eyes fell on the sword and he quickly looked up at Sandor. "Is that it? Lightbringer?" He asked, astonished. "How did you get it so quickly? It takes ages to get down there, even at a run." Out of all the supernatural occurrences which were happening around him, this seemed to surprise him.

Sandor grinned. "My wife is an intelligent woman." He shrugged and handed Jon the sword. "It doesn't look much like a 'Lightbringer' to me. Don't know why they've fucking called it that."

Jon lifted the sword, studying the strange metal and running his finger down the edge. "Still sharp. But you're right, it hardly seems out of the ordinary." He looked at Sandor, his brow furrowed. "Behind you."

Sandor drew his own weapon and dispatched the wight which had reached them, then turned back to Jon, who was speaking again.

"Isn't it supposed to be a flaming sword?"

Sandor grunted. "I don't know that it matters if it's a fucking dancing sword if we can't get it into the Night King's heart."

Jon looked at the fighting in the courtyard, the stream of corpses temporarily slowed by the exploding weapons of the Children which were still going off every few seconds. It appeared that there'd still been no sign of the Walkers or the Night King. He clenched his jaw, "I know. What about Bran?"

Sandor shook his head. "He made it into the crypts, but he's lost to the world. Must be inside one of the dragons."

Jon glanced up at the battlements, at the few men left there fighting back the onslaught of dead. He could only imagine what the field beyond the walls looked like. In the courtyard, corpses were everywhere, both from his own fallen men, and the defeated or undefeated reanimated corpses. The wolves still fought, though their numbers had been greatly diminished and Jon felt sure that the largest form he saw lying amongst the dead was Nymeria, her life given in defense of the home she'd once called her own. He clenched his fist around the new sword he carried, Longclaw still sheathed at his side. He looked into Sandor's eyes, determination and a justified anger lighting a fire behind his own. "We have to end this," he fairly growled.

The north facing wall of Winterfell suddenly exploded, and the two men fell to the ground, covering their heads instinctively. Men, stone and debris crashed all around them as the monstrous form of a dragon skidded through the break in the walls made by his own body. The beast finally came to a rest in the courtyard among the wreckage, a long, icy shaft nestled under his great wing. Drogon raised his head weakly, and thrashed his tail, roaring in pain. Jon and Sandor pushed the bits of rubble off of them, as they got to their feet and surveyed the destruction.

The main force of wights at the fore of the battle had been crushed by Drogon's fall, many with his body and others with the stone of the fallen part of the castle. Men had been killed instantly on the impact or buried under the crumbled stone, and others were crawling now out of the ruins, helping one another to their feet. An icy fog blew through the yawning gap in the walls, and the hairs rose on the back of Jon's neck. Drogon shrieked again, raising his head just enough to shoot a blast of flame toward the opening in the wall, exacting one last effort of vengeance before dropping his head back to the earth. A low growl issued weakly from his throat before his eyes closed and he moved no more.

Despite the blast of flame, the cold fog was overwhelming and Jon quickly unsheathed Longclaw and gave it to Sandor. "You'll need this." Sandor took it without argument, certain that at least the metal of Lightbringer, if not currently aflame, must have the magic to withstand the Walker's blades.

The flames seemed to cower away from the forbidding presence of the Night King as he stepped through them, walking steadily and sure-footed through the wreckage of Winterfell's northern wall, his cold blue eyes trained ahead in unwavering focus. The Walkers came with him, parting the flames as well, flanking him on both sides. It seemed as if everything else in the battle stopped momentarily as the White Walkers entered the castle. There were at least twenty, though Jon did not attempt to count as he quickly stepped out into the courtyard with Lightbringer, his hands clenched around the hilt tightly, his jaw set.

The Night King turned to face Jon, and their eyes met briefly with a fierce intensity before he broke the stare and looked beyond Sandor to the doors of the great hall. Everyone's eyes followed, the temporary silence in the courtyard creating an eerie sense of foreboding. It was as if time had stopped.

Sandor turned and saw Daenerys, naked and breathtaking, with her skin still the color of ice, her long white hair whipping about her shoulders. But it was her eyes that caused his stomach to jolt, a sickening sense of dread taking hold of him as she stared out into the frozen castle grounds with an icy blue glare. All eyes were on her and they were awestruck, both by the change which had come over her, and by the otherworldly beauty which was even more striking because of her nakedness. Jon looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

Daenerys moved slowly toward Jon, and Sandor noticed that even the dead men had stopped the advance temporarily, swaying mindlessly in one place as they had when they'd surrounded the island months ago beyond the wall. The Night King, the Walkers, all the men and the dead were silent and motionless as they watched her.

She reached Jon and he almost flinched when she stretched her arm toward his face, touching his cheek gently as she held his gaze with her fierce blue eyes. He jolted at the cold touch and gasped, closing his eyes tightly for a moment as he seemed to fight with himself inside of his mind. Finally he opened his eyes again—wide and incredulous—and they searched Daenerys' face with an expression that showed equal wonder and sorrow. She nodded almost imperceptibly, then moved past him to where Drogon lay.

Jon closed his eyes briefly again before shouting in rage, making the first sound in the courtyard since the dragon had died, and he rushed at the Night King, blade held high. The battle resumed instantaneously.

Men shouted, the dead screeched, and steel shattered under the weapons of the Walkers by those unlucky enough to not possess a sword of Valyrian steel or dragonglass. Sandor charged the nearest Walker and engaged him. Nearby, Brienne was screaming, swinging violently with two Valyrian steel swords. She sliced through the Walker, turning him into shards of ice before chucking one of her swords at Tormund who had just worked his way out from the rubble.

Jon slashed at the Night King, attacking, parrying, thrusting, yet not causing any damage with his sword. The men were overwhelmed, and though new warriors were rushing in every moment from the gap in the wall along with the dead, Jon knew it was not enough. He shouted in frustration, knowing what he must do yet dreading it with every fiber of his being.

Daenerys had reached Drogon and began stroking him in the chaos, her blue hands running gently along his scaled face, a single tear falling from her changed eyes. She turned around slowly and faced Jon, who'd run from his fight toward her. She stood still, her arms at her sides, her chin high. Her face was at peace and her eyes were closed.

Jon grimaced, but did not hesitate. He plunged Lightbringer through her heart in one swift stroke. He choked, emotion twisting his face as she fell to her knees. Her blue eyes opened, piercing his with the intensity of her gaze, and she smiled sadly before collapsing backward onto the snow.

Jon clenched his jaw, fighting the tears as he withdrew Lightbringer from her breast. The sword seemed to sing as it left her body, her blood igniting it in an intense flame that scintillated in alternating azure and golden tones. Its song was the song of ice and fire.

Jon spun about and the battle seemed to come into focus again. Sandor was engaged with the Night King, offering Jon protection while he'd been momentarily distracted. Beric was collapsing, an icy spear buried in his chest by the thrust of a Walker, one of two he'd been fighting. An arrow tipped with dragonglass was loosed from somewhere atop the battlements and it found its mark in one of the Walkers, shattering him into a million pieces, and some of the wights fell with him. Jorah had flown to Daenerys' side, and was holding her body in his arms, shaking, the battle temporarily forgotten. Men all around him were fighting for life, whether with the dead men or the Walkers.

All of this Jon took in in an instant, hardly registering any of it, for his attention was trained solely on the Night King. He charged toward him, shouting in rage with Lightbringer stretched out across his right shoulder. Sandor turned aside and saw the shock registering in the eyes of his opponent as Jon's sword fell heavily onto the Night King's weapon, the strange, high-pitched, harmonious sound heightening with the blow. Sandor turned and sliced through a corpse as he headed to engage the Walker who had taken Jorah from behind, burying his crystalized sword between the knight's shoulders.

Jon saw a flicker of fear registering in the Night King's eyes as they fought and he guessed that the creature did not originally believe that he'd had the true sword. He closed his unnatural blue eyes for a split second, seeming to focus on something else, and the hairs on Jon's neck began to rise. All at once the dead were standing, all of the newly dead Northmen, Unsullied, and the Dothraki, Jorah and Beric—all with piercing blue eyes.

A great shuffling sounded from behind him as he continued to rain blows on the Night King, and he knew what it was. He glanced quickly and saw Drogon rising to his feet, his great leathered wings jamming into the frozen earth as he shook his head and roared.

Jon had seconds to react. He knew this was a last ditch attempt by his enemy, he had seen the fear in his eyes—the fear of losing his war to the Prince with the one weapon that he knew could defeat him. An incredible surge of strength rushed through Jon, fueled by the just rage of all that had happened in his life that had brought him to this moment. He shouted with it, a loud, powerful, furious roar as he bore down on his enemy, knocking the crystallized weapon from his hands.

Before the panic had fully registered in the Night King's eyes, Jon plunged Lightbringer into his chest, a fierce grimace upon his face as he stared into the cold blue eyes. The flames of the sword grew brighter and the Night King grabbed the hilt in shock, the color draining from his face and eyes. In a matter of moments he was no longer an ice demon—the flame of Lightbringer slowly died until all that was left was a man with a sword in his chest. His eyes glossed over and he ceased to move, yet Jon always thought for the rest of his life that he'd seen a flicker of relief in the man's eyes before he finally died.

Everything was silent around him. Jon was heaving, breathless from the fight, and it was only then that he looked up to see no one standing but men. All of the wights had collapsed lifelessly as the magic drained from their master. The Walkers had shattered where they stood, their icy remains blown across the blood soaked courtyard of Winterfell.

Jon fell to his knees as a cry of victory rose from the living.

 **This chapter was so hard to write, and I fear I didn't do it justice. Good news is we'll be able to get back to our favorite couple soon. And I'm sorry so many had to die, but it wouldn't be a believable GOT story if we didn't realistically lose people we care about. Don't hate me, I cried like a baby for Jaime and Brienne. This is just my ending, who knows if the story will go this way (if you think Dany is making it out of GOT alive then you're kidding yourself, hahahah that's all I'll say on that). You guys are the best, leave me some reviews, just so I know what you're thinking!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Hi guys I wanted to do a slightly longer Author's Note today as like an "inside the episode" if you will, hope you don't mind :D Also just thank you so much for your reviews, they were a HUGE relief! I was very worried about how this chapter would go over so it was very encouraging to hear back from you guys, I loved each one! WatchHeart, I'm so sorry I broke your heart with Jaime, lol, I broke mine a little as well. There's a few reasons I allowed him to die, one is that this wouldn't be as true to the show if we didn't lose people that we're not "okay" with losing. I mean I'm not going to permanently kill our couple because this IS fanfiction and I'm not into tragedy endings with lovers. But since this is not primarily a Jaime/Brienne love fanfic, I've allowed him to die because I believe that's where his arc is going, both in the books and the show.**

 **Jaime was raised very selfishly, very much with the focus on self-preservation. It was all about them, the Lannisters, and making sure their legacy and their power and money lasted. I think that became part of who he was, especially with his incestual relationship at such a young age, it was more of that selfish "us and no one else" kind of thinking. Still, he did have honor, and Jaime's whole story throughout ASOIAF is this remembering that he is a man of honor, finding what it means for him personally-that it doesn't mean you need to be a stick-up-your-butt, more self-righteous kind of person like Ned Stark, but that you can still do the right thing. I really think that Brienne was the catalyst that allowed him to break past his selfish nature-her and being maimed. So bringing this story around to him seeking redemption, first in trying to keep his oath to Catelyn, then leaving Cersei, and ultimately dying for the boy that he'd selfishly tried to kill in the first place felt like it was right for his character. I honestly think the show is going to go the same route, bringing his character arc to an end by him sacrificing himself in some way for the Starks (probably Bran). His story and the fact that the show already is fine with killing people we love is just begging for an ending like that, as tragic as it is. It felt right to write, even if it did break my heart.**

 **This chapter will get a little more into what happened with Daenerys, and it's going to have a very predestination feel. I allowed Dany and her dragons to die because really I believe their purpose all along was this. Dragons are terrifying, destructive creatures of death, alpha-predators that we don't want roaming Westeros in a time of peace. The Targaryens were terrible conquerors, hell-bent on domination above everything else, and Dany has that in her as well. She fights it, much more than some of her ancestors, but it's still there. I think it was all there for a reason, all of her drive to conquer Westeros was necessary to get her all of the armies and actually get across the Narrow Sea to Westeros so that she could be in the right place at the right time for when she needed to fight in the war for the living. It was always her purpose. If you haven't checked out some of the popular fan theories on how ASOIAF will end on youtube, I recommend doing so, they may make the way I've gone with this make a bit more sense.**

 **You guys are the best readers ever! There's still more to come with picking up the pieces in Westeros, bringing an end to Cersei, and settling our favorite couple with their new family addition on the way. Thank you, thank you!**

Chapter 26

"It is over." Bran's pupils rolled back into place and he raised his head, looking about him at the terrified faces flickering in the torchlight. They were holding their breaths for the outcome—Varys, Missandei, Rain and Moss, Sansa and Tyrion and so many others—all white faced and waiting. Bran allowed himself a smile, "We have won."

Like a wave the faces before him broke with emotion, each in their own unique way. Some shouted in victory, others wept, releasing all of the pent-up feelings that had been torturing them inside since the battle had begun. Some laughed and embraced those around them, and some just sat and stared in wonder. Tyrion was one of the latter. There was no doubt he was grateful—the relief had shot through him like a drug, immediately relaxing his nerves. Yet he'd suffered loss, had paid so dearly for the victory. He swallowed and forced a smile at those around him who were celebrating. _This_ , he thought, _is what the singers and the poets mean by "bittersweet."_ _It is such a sweet, sweet ending, and yet the bitterness fills my mouth._

The doors were being pushed open and daylight flooded the dim passageway of the crypts. Those who'd been lying in anxious wait were now shuffling out into the courtyard, embracing those they'd been agonizing over during their long and terrifying morning beneath the earth.

Sansa stepped forth, blinking as her eyes adjusted and swallowed hard. She knew it was selfish to only care about whether her Sandor had made it through or not, yet she could not help it. She had to know. _The Lord of Light is not done with him yet. That's what Beric said, he said he needed to live for a purpose._ It gave her courage to begin searching the sea of dirty, exhausted, and blood-stained faces which greeted her. _Unless_ , her stomach flipped inside of her, sending a shock of horror through her body. _Unless he fulfilled his purpose and then died. Gods, don't let it be so._ Her whole body was shaking as she stepped around the side of the doors, looking for the face of the man she loved.

She knew he'd be standing a head above the others, and when she didn't see his large form she placed a hand on her stomach, forcing her eyelids closed—forcing the ragged breaths to come evenly, and her mind to keep calm. The ache in her throat was becoming unbearable and she desperately tried not to believe the worst.

"Sansa." She whirled, the relief in hearing his deep voice rushing over her like a wave as she looked up at him. It clouded her mind, sent chills all through her body—tingles that made her want to shudder all over. She felt nauseated suddenly and her skin went cold. Her vision narrowed into a tunnel of black as all her strength left her body.

He caught her before she fell, gently hoisted her into his arms and began walking toward the hall which had been untouched by the breeched wall. Sandor looked down at her pale face, tiny beads of sweat forming on the ivory skin that was still scratched and blood-stained from her fight with the dead. His heart gave a queer little ache as he thought of how she'd fought monsters for him, his little lady Sansa, and he held her closer.

He pushed the heavy doors in and laid her on the nearest table, removing his gauntlets. He gently lifted her upper body as he stroked the hair back from her face. "Sansa," he breathed softly, rasping. "Little bird, come back." He knew there was no danger—she'd passed out, likely from nerves—and he was taking the moment to revel in being safe with her. Finally safe.

He suddenly remembered what she'd revealed to him, and his hands moved down to her waist, gently settling on her stomach. _Our child will be safe_. _My child._ The thrill that went through his body as he finally allowed it to sink in was something he'd never experienced before. He'd never thought he'd have children or a family. Of course he'd wanted it, in his moments of weakness when he'd allowed his walls to come down. Of course he'd wanted love and a life of peace—he'd just never thought it was possible for him. His life had been nothing but terror and cruelty—there had been no place for love.

Until her. He looked back up at her face, her delicate features framed in her tousled red hair. "Sansa," he whispered, near her face. He couldn't bring himself to finish his thought aloud, _I never dared to hope that I could be as happy as I am in this moment. You have given me everything that I never thought I could have, everything I never believed I deserved._ He stroked her hair away from her face and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. She began to stir, her brow furrowing and a slight moan coming from her lips. Her eyes blinked slowly open and finally focused on his face.

"Oh, Sandor…" she paused, concern etched in her features as she saw that there were tears in his eyes—something she'd never before seen. She remembered that night, long ago during the Battle of the Blackwater when she'd felt the tears on his face, but she'd tried to convince herself that she'd just imagined it. Yet now she knew they were there, and they fell silently down his cheeks as he reached out and stroked her face gently. "My love—I'm all right…" She didn't know what had prompted the emotion, yet her heart ached to make it better.

He smiled and shook his head, trying to bring the gruffness back to his exterior. "No, it's not that." His voice cracked a little and he cleared his throat. Sansa sat up on the table and gently reached out to wipe the tear from his cheek. She searched his eyes as he looked up at her, his hands on her waist, hoping he would explain.

Sandor reached up around her neck, holding her head gently in his hands as his thumb stroked the side of her face. "I just—you're everything to me, Little Bird..." he looked down for a moment, but he wanted her to know. She was the one person who knew his true self, the one person with whom he could share his deepest feelings. He met her eyes again and continued, his voice low and hoarse. "You've given me everything, did you know that? Everything." His eyes looked back and forth between hers, and he smiled. There was only Sandor—not a single vestige of the Hound was present in that silent hall with her. "I love you more than I could ever tell you. And this?" He moved his hand down to her stomach, shaking his head with incredulity. "I can't…" He didn't have the words to express himself and paused before sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her into him tightly. He held his face close to hers, silent for a moment, before whispering, "I've never felt like this before, Sansa. So happy, I mean. I'm—I'm not very good at it." He chuckled and squeezed her tighter, kissing her softly on her temple.

Sansa closed her eyes as he rested on her shoulder, her arms and legs wrapped around him as she sat against the edge of the table. He was here, in her arms, in her heart and they were safe. She smiled and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods. She had never before been so grateful for life.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was so much to do, and the mood in Winterfell was exactly as Tyrion had described—bittersweet. There had been a great victory and everyone who lived was grateful for it, yet there was heartache everywhere. There were graves to be dug and bodies to burn. There was no longer the need to burn the dead out of fear that they would rise as wights, still there were so many that it was logistically the only way to deal with all of them. Those who wished to bury their dead were given the opportunity to do so, provided with the manpower and materials to take their dead beyond the castle to be given a proper burial.

Jon decided that Daenerys would rest in the crypts. She was not a Stark, but she was the true victor in the battle for the living, and he felt she deserved the honor to be buried in a place where she would be remembered. She had no true home in Westeros, after all. Her final resting place would become her home, where she could be forever remembered as a great heroine who sacrificed everything she had for life. The North would remember.

Tyrion thought at first that his brother should be buried in Casterly Rock, yet part of him wondered whether he'd have wanted that. Jaime's last years had been spent distancing himself from the mistakes of his past, from the cruelty and selfishness of his own blood. But it was not in their custom to burn their dead, either. It was decided that a portion of the crypts would be given over to the highborn warriors who had perished in the battle, a place of honor where they would be remembered for all time. These were not normal circumstance and with some castles entirely destroyed and much of the North in a state of upheaval, there would be no way to properly embalm and transport the bodies to their family keeps. Tyrion was satisfied with this arrangement, and the greater part of the next few days would be spent in caring for the dead. Reports of their victory were sent to Davos and the host of the people with him so that they could begin the journey back to their homes, and also to the maesters at Oldtown. The reconstruction of the castle would take months, but for the time being, Winterfell was doing what it could to get itself back in order.

That evening after a simple supper of bread, salt beef, and cheese, the victors gathered quietly in Sansa's solar. It was the first time that they were able to stop and reflect on the events which had occurred since the morning. The mood was solemn and no one felt exceptionally chatty, yet they still craved each other's presence. And so it happened that the remaining Starks, Daenerys' council members, Brienne and Tormund gathered in the quiet room, grateful for one another's company. The hearth crackled peacefully and all was quiet for several minutes.

When the silence was finally broken, it was no surprise to anyone that it was by Tyrion. "Did any of us actually think this moment would come?" He chuckled, only a hint of bitterness present in his voice. He looked up at Jon, "Is it too soon to ask how it happened?"

Jon shrugged, still too numb by the events of the day to really feel like discussing it. Yet he didn't want to be alone either. He wasn't ready to face his own feelings alone. Sandor cleared his throat after realizing that Jon would not be offering the information, and he gave the bare bones description of what had occurred—at least from his perspective. Eyes widened and astonished glances were exchanged during Sandor's recap—specifically about Daenerys and how the sword had truly become Lightbringer. Sansa's heart broke a little for Jon at the horror of what he'd had to do.

When Sandor finished, Bran's voice drifted over to the others from where he sat in his wheeled chair by the fire. "It was the dragon wight's flame that changed her." He spoke into the fire and not to anyone in particular. "When I was in Rhaegal I was losing. The wight didn't feel pain as we fought, yet when I am in the beasts their wounds are my wounds, their pain is my pain. I could not stop the Night King. When I cried out after being mortally wounded, Daenerys came to help." He shook his head. "I don't know why the flame changed her, though."

Missandei, to the surprise of everyone, responded. "My queen was the Unburnt—she could not be harmed by fire. This blue flame of the dragon she lost—perhaps it had some magic of the ice demon—the Night King. Instead of killing her, it changed her?" She looked to Grey Worm who sat beside her, his left arm bandaged from a wound he'd received. He nodded in agreement.

Bran continued, "You may be right. After Rhaegal fell, wounded, I moved to the mind of Drogon so that Daenerys could be returned safely. I continued fighting and burning the dead. When I saw the Walkers, I tried to take them out, but they'd been prepared." He looked around at the others then, "he threw the spear at me and I wasn't quick enough. I can still feel where it pierced me."

Bran's description of his skinchanging gave the others an uncomfortable feeling. How odd it must be to live inside of another creature, feeling its pain and moving with its body.

"And now there are no more dragons in the world," said Varys, dramatically, his head tilting to the side as he looked at the carpet. "It is a sad thing, how they died, and yet—," he met Tyrion's eyes knowingly, "I fear they were not truly meant to live in this world. They had a purpose and they fulfilled it, thank the Gods." He sighed, his hands characteristically tucked away in his large sleeves in front of him.

Jon finally spoke, not focusing on anything but the floor. "You're right. It was their purpose." He looked up slightly, fixing his eyes on Varys, then Tyrion. "She—Daenerys. She—showed me everything." He shook his head, knowing how foolish he sounded. He looked at Sandor, "You saw, when she touched me." Sandor nodded, remembering, and Jon continued. "I can't really explain how, but I saw everything in that moment. From her birth to the dragon breathing the blue flame over her. She knew." He swallowed and clasped his hands together. "She knew what needed to be done and she was at peace with it. She wanted to be with her husband and her son."

The others looked at him with incredulity, truly in awe. "I know how foolish it sounds, but in that moment I just—knew—everything about Daenerys Targaryen. There was a time when she was in Qarth and she visited the House of the Undying. She'd had many visions there, and they'd all suddenly made sense. She was going to come so close to the iron throne, yet just as in her vision, she never touched it. Instead she ventured beyond the wall, to the frozen North, ultimately to be with her husband and son in the afterlife." He laughed softly with the irony. "It was so beautiful, but so tragic. The Undying told her that she would light three fires: one for life, one for death, and one for love. She knew she'd already lit the first two—the pyre which brought her dragons to life, then in the temple of the Dothraki when she burned their lords to death to become the ruler of the khalasar." He looked up at Missandei whom he knew was Daenerys' oldest companion currently present, and she looked sideways at Grey Worm nervously, then nodded at Jon. He continued, "But she hadn't understood what would be the last fire that she must light until today, until the moment when she awoke from her change and knew that her own blood would give it flame. The fire she would light for love…" He sounded wistful, suddenly incredibly sad.

"It is poetic justice," Tyrion reflected quietly, before looking up at the rest of the room. "Did you know how Lightbringer was forged? Perhaps you'll remember the tale from your wet nurse?" Some of his companions looked at each other, but it was Missandei who answered.

"Yes. The legendary hero, Azor Ahai worked for thirty days and thirty nights on the sword. But when he went to temper it in water, it shattered. So he started again, working fifty days and fifty nights, but when he tried to temper it by thrusting it into a lion, again it shattered. Then, with a heavy heart, for he knew what he must do, he worked for one hundred days and nights on the sword. Then he called his wife, Nissa Nissa to him, whom he loved with all of his heart. He pressed the sword into her heart, creating Lightbringer. They say her cry left a crack on the face of the moon." Grey Worm was looking wistfully at Missandei as she told her tale, the admiration plain on his face.

Tyrion smiled sadly, "Yes, so they say. And who would have thought that reality would have been so like the myth." He sighed, as he felt the weight of all that had occurred bearing down upon him. He remembered Jon and glanced back at him, "You did the right thing, Jon. Gods know it must not have been easy. We are all indebted to you."

Jon clenched his jaw. "If you must feel indebted, let it be to her. I would not have done it if she had not—not demanded it of me. She might not have spoken, but she asked it of me all the same. Somehow I knew what she wanted me to do—what she expected me to do. It felt as if I'd always been meant to do it." He looked down at his hands, clearly at war with himself. "I hope she truly is at peace."

Everyone was silent for several moments, reflecting on all that had happened, all that had been said. Finally, Tyrion asked, "And what of my sister? When shall we be gathering the armies to prepare for her imminent attack?" His loathing was apparent in his tone.

Jon lifted his head from where he'd been holding it in his hands and sighed. He suddenly felt exhausted. "We will wait. Bury our dead, reinforce Winterfell and the North. Rest. We will wait until we've had a chance to hear from Arya."

 **Thank you to all of you! Review, review! :D**


	27. Chapter 27

**Here we have a lovely little fluff chapter that's totally NSFW. A little of the SanSan action that brought you all here in the first place. ;)**

 **As I take away, so also do I give. Lol, sorry, silly today.**

Chapter 27

"You don't remember anything then?"

Sandor shook his head. It was evening the following day and upon finishing the first proper meal they'd had since the morning of the battle, he was returning to his room with Sansa.

She didn't say anything in response, her arm laced in his as they walked leisurely, allowing their food to settle. After a moment she continued, "Well, it was completely horrible for me." She spoke quietly, not wanting to breathe too much life into the remembrance of those awful moments. "You said, 'I'll keep you safe,' just like that, and it was so—so terrible. One moment you were breathing and the next—," she shuddered and placed her head on his shoulder, not wanting to finish the memory.

"I'm sorry, little bird." He placed his hand on hers and squeezed it. "I do remember that, I remember kind of a dull pain." He wrinkled his brow thoughtfully, "but mostly I just felt tired, like I couldn't resist the urge to sleep. And I thought I had fallen asleep—at least, the next thing I knew I was looking up at Beric." He grimaced, feeling somehow guilty that the man had died while he'd lived. There was nothing to be done about it, however, and Sandor continued. "There was nothing while I was—dead." He said the word with hesitation. It felt strange to talk about his own death.

Sansa glanced up at him as they walked before turning her gaze back down to the path in front of her. "It was the worst pain I've ever felt. Worse than Ramsay or Joffrey. I didn't want to live anymore." Her voice almost broke as she relived those moments, the worst moments of her life. "I had nothing left but anger. I wanted to destroy all of them." She spoke low and Sandor looked sideways at her, surprised at the depth of her feeling. He shook his head and smiled in remembrance.

"I can't believe you did that. What were you thinking? Have you ever even carried a sword before yesterday?" He chuckled.

"I hadn't," Sansa admitted. "I mean, not with any intention of using it. But I wasn't thinking, I was just acting. I had nothing to fear anymore." She turned to him as they reached the door to their chambers. "I had already experienced my worst fear." She swallowed the lump in her throat and reached up to stroke the burned side of his face. "I thought I'd never see you again—never hold you again or feel these arms around me." She grasped them as she said it, reaching up to place a chaste kiss on his lips. She opened her eyes again and met his, "I only wanted revenge." She was fierce in that instant, like the direwolf of her sigil.

Sandor ran his thumb along the fresh scratches that marred her neck and chest. "I've never had anyone do anything even close to that for me." He pushed the door open behind her and slowly backed her into the room, guiding her by the hips as he did so. "When I saw you there…with that fucker tearing at you—Gods I'd never felt more alive." He pressed a kiss onto her lips, holding her face in his large, calloused hands as he tasted her.

Sansa opened for him, kissing him deeply, passionately—allowing a moan to fill his mouth as much as her tongue did. When she drew back she was biting his lip. Sandor chuckled and growled, pulling her body against him. "What's gotten into you, you wild thing?" His hands gripped her hips roughly, reflecting her lusty urges with his own.

"You know I'm not _totally_ helpless. I took out three of them before you came." She stuck her chin up, feigning haughtiness.

He pulled his head back and raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "No you didn't." The statement was half a question, and Sansa's voice raised in her retort.

"I did! You can ask—," she broke off, for she was going to say Beric, but realized that even if he hadn't been dead now, he may not have seen. "You can ask Bran," she satisfied herself with having at least one witness if he must be called upon.

Sandor grinned and closed the door before moving toward the bench where he began to remove his boots. "You took out three of those dead cunts?" He scoffed good-naturedly. "Tell me how you did it." He moved on to removing his tunic, thoroughly pleased with the conversation.

Sansa crossed her arms and leaned all of her weight on one hip in staunch confidence, "Well, the first one I just—just charged at. I know I was screaming and I swung at it. I cut it right in half, in his ribcage." At Sandor's raised eyebrows, she responded with raised chin. "I did! He _was_ mostly just skeleton though. But then there were two more so I threw one of the—the weapons that the Children made, those orb things—and it took one out, but the other I just slashed at again." She unfolded her arms and walked to the bed, seating herself smugly. "I _almost_ got that other one, the one who did this," she gestured to her wounds dismissively, "but I was tired and I missed. The sword was too heavy."

Sandor was just in his breeches now and sauntered to her in full good humor. "Do you want me to give you some lessons now? You could be like your sister, you think?" She smacked his shoulder pouting, and he pretended to be hurt with an unsuppressed grin playing on his face. He grabbed her shoulders, chuckling. "I'm sorry, little bird, I'm just playing. Really, I'm impressed."

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced of his sincerity. "I am," he assured her. "You've always been the perfect little lady—well, a pretty tough lady since you've returned to the North, but still a lady. A lot of men wouldn't have faced those monsters, and you beat three?" He shook his head again, then narrowed his eyes at her. "You're not having a go at me?"

Sansa laughed then, relaxing her act a little. "No, I really did. I was in—in a whole different place, Sandor." She placed her hands on his bare chest, scratching her nails gently through the curly hairs which softened the hard muscle beneath her fingertips. "I was wild with grief and anger. Plus," she grinned wickedly up at him, "I'm with child, and they say we can be absolutely mad." She bit her lip.

"Do they say that?" He raised his eyebrows again, a suggestive look playing in his dark eyes. He pulled her to her feet and drew her toward him.

"They do," she'd lowered her voice, a sultry inflection hinting at the desire that was building inside of her. She put her hands on his and pushed them away, a glint of naughtiness in her blue eyes.

He grabbed her roughly, flinging her around and pulling her into him by her arms. He pressed himself against her, knowing she could feel his hardening manhood against her lower back. His hot breath on her neck sent chills through her body and she clenched her teeth, still pushing him away. It was an act and they both knew it; she loved when he grabbed her roughly.

Sandor pulled at the laces on the back of her dress, loosening the bodice of her gown enough to slip it down one ivory shoulder. He traced his fingers along the curve slowly, her hip still firmly in the grasp of his left hand. His mouth found the place he loved the most: the curve between her neck and shoulder, and he bit down on it. Sansa shuddered out a ragged breath, clenching the fabric of her skirt in one hand, her other still white-knuckled over the one he had grasping her hip. He sucked the skin of her neck until a small red bruise appeared, marking her as his own. His left hand reached around and began squeezing her inner thigh, just barely brushing against the place between her legs enough to madden her. Sansa moaned, feeling the familiar ache in her loins, knowing she was already wet for him.

He pulled the gown down her shoulders and hips until she was stepping out of it, and his hands moved up to her breasts. He gripped one hard in his large hand through the thin fabric of her undergown, his other hand finally pressing against the sensitive spot between her legs, urging a groan of pleasure from her lips. Sandor could feel the blood pulsing hot through his veins, swelling his cock to its full capacity and he growled, spinning her back around to face him. "I want to fuck you now," he pulled his lips back and sucked his breath in through clenched teeth as he said it.

Her bottom lip went into her mouth and she tilted her head downward while still holding his gaze, shaking her head.

"No?" He grinned and grabbed her wrist, pulling her sharply to him while her coquettish smile gave her desire away. Sandor roughed the remaining fabric up to her waist and wrenched her undergarments off. Grasping her shoulders with one arm, he slid the fingers of his other hand between her lower lips before shoving them inside of her. Sansa gasped and squirmed, clenching her hands on his shoulders as he curled his fingers and moved them greedily in and out of her. She moaned longingly, her head thrown back and mouth open as she sucked in ragged breaths.

He stopped long enough to pull the undergown off of his wife, revealing all of her to him. He unlaced his breeches and dropped them, along with his underclothes, and he saw the hunger in her eyes as they fell on his manhood. "Still no then?" He rasped, grinning down at her as he stepped closer.

She pulled her lips back from her clenched teeth just as he had done, sucking the breath in sharply as she put her own hand between her legs where his had been moments ago. "Mmmmmm, no I want you now." She was the lady to everyone else out there, but in his bed she was the direwolf.

He covered her mouth with his, ravishing her as he pressed against her warm body. Reaching around, he squeezed her bottom before lifting it and hoisting her up against him. The tip of his cock pushed into the wetness between her legs, just enough for her to try and squirm herself lower, wanting to take him inside of her.

Sandor would not yet give her what she desired. He laid her on the bed, moving in between her legs as he climbed onto her. Sansa was kissing him passionately, pulling him closer and begging him with her hips. Still, he withheld, just allowing his warm, silky head to graze her entrance, teasing her mercilessly. She whined in frustration, reaching down suddenly to grasp his elusive cock with her slender fingers and hold him where she wanted him to go. Sandor flinched in surprise and then laughed at her intensity. "Now you want me, little bird, is that it?" He asked, leaning over her on one elbow as he took a nipple between his teeth, looking up at her as he did so. Her hand still grasped his cock and she began to stroke it firmly, eliciting a deep groan from his throat which sent vibrations through her breast.

"Yes," she gasped, wrapping her slender thighs around his hips, trying to pull him closer. "I want you inside me." Sansa's hands gripped his shoulders as she attempted to seduce him with her mouth, pressing it against his with a passionate, pleading kiss. He slipped his arm under her shoulder as he moved his hips into her in response, plunging his thick cock into her depths, and their moans of pleasure came simultaneously. She dug her nails into his arms and clenched her inner walls around him when he reached the back of her. Her teeth gritted, she looked intensely into his eyes and demanded, "Fuck me now!" He didn't need to be told twice.

It was rough and intense; lusty. She'd never had such an animal desire for him as she did in that moment, the look in her face like she wanted to consume him as he pounded her into the sheets. She moaned in deep tones, seducing him with the movements she made and the looks she gave him. A slick sheen of sweat soon glistened on both bodies, yet he drove continuously into her. After several intense moments she pushed a hand on his chest and met his gaze. "Wait."

She wriggled herself away from him and turned over, lying on her stomach with her back arched. Sandor's surprise lasted only a second until he was presented with the smooth curves of her backside and he grasped one cheek roughly, growling. She looked over her shoulder at him, erotic desire flashing in her eyes that looked navy blue in the candlelight. He straddled one of her legs, positioning himself again at her entrance as she arched up to allow him easier access. His cock slipped inside her once more, and he grasped one of her breasts, pressing her body again into the sheets with his slow, intense thrusts. Sansa moaned sensually, his manhood reaching new points of pleasure in this position, and she closed her eyes, pushing her head back against his shoulder.

Sandor bit the mark he had made earlier on her shoulder, twisting her nipple between his fingers as he fucked her from behind. He felt her hand moving under her stomach as she reached for her nub, adding another dimension of pleasure to her experience. Every movement he made inside of her was intensified by the positioning of their bodies and Sansa's breathing and moaning increased. Within moments she was at the edge, but Sandor pulled mostly out of her, withholding. He moved his head over her shoulder and kissed her on the mouth while she craned her neck around to meet his lips. She moaned into his mouth as if she could draw her climax out of him if she tasted him hard enough. When he drew back she pushed her lower body toward him, begging for more of his cock.

"Do you want it?" he rasped in her ear, pulling on the lobe with his teeth and sucking. His large hand still grasped one breast, the other supporting his body as it lay over hers. The head of his manhood penetrated her, but just barely. Sansa rubbed her pleasure spot in circles frantically, waiting for him to finish her. "Yes, damn it, I need you." One side of her face lay against the sheets and her eyes were squeezed shut in desperation as she begged for release. He moved his full length back into her tight depths and she half-screamed, half-moaned into the mattress, muffling the sounds of her pleasure. He'd hardly rocked his pelvis twice into her before she was violently clenching around his manhood, screaming into the sheets and twisting them in her white hands.

There was no fucking way he could hold himself back any longer. Sandor's arm moved from her breast up to her shoulder, allowing him to pull her body into his thrusts. He clenched his teeth as he plunged roughly into her, groaning his release to the sounds of her muffled screams. Sansa felt his cock emptying inside of her in pulses and her walls clenched involuntarily around him in spasms of ecstasy. He thrust into her one last time before slumping on her back, finishing with a series of small kisses from her shoulder to her neck as his arm wrapped her in an embrace from underneath. "Ohhhh gods," Sansa breathed into the feather bed where her hand still clenched a tight wad of sheets in her fist. "That was incredible." Her other hand was still under her body and her fingers lightly brushed her nub in finality, unsurprised to find herself too sensitive to withstand further touching.

Sandor slipped his still-hard and wet cock out of her as he rolled onto the bed beside his wife, his arm draping across her back. She pushed herself onto her side and reached up to stroke his beard, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. Sandor looked her up and down and grinned, "I think that was the best sex I've ever had, little bird." He chuckled softly, "Little wolf, I should call you." His hand rested on her hip and he drew her body closer to him. "What made you want to try it that way?"

The old Sansa would have blushed, but this wolf-girl just grinned wickedly. "I'm not entirely ignorant of how to behave in the bedroom." Her brow arched in elegant mystique, leaving him purposely unsatisfied with the response. She would never have let him know that in those dark caverns yesterday morning during the long, tumultuous minutes of waiting on the outcome of the battle, she'd cornered a woman. A woman whom she knew to be a whore from the winter town beyond Winterfell's gates, and from her lips had learned a great deal about "how to behave in the bedroom."

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	28. Chapter 28

**So this chapter in King's Landing is going to be set some time after the great battle that occurred at Winterfell since Arya and Gendry would've taken some time to travel there, and some time for recon. We can assume that Cersei has heard only whispers of what may have happened at that battle, but nothing for certain, since virtually the entire realm has opposed her rule, with the exception of those in King's Landing who are under her thumb. Winterfell will be rebuilding during this time, taking care of the dead and relocating the people of the North, etc.**

 **As always, thank you for reading, following, and reviewing!**

Chapter 28

Euron strode confidently along the aisle of the great throne room in the Red Keep, a sly grin pasted onto his face as he arrogantly eyed Queen Cersei up and down. The commanders of the Golden Company were on his heels, carrying their helms under their arms and flanked by twenty or so lieutenants and officers of the sellsword army. Euron stopped his approach when he came within a few feet of the iron throne and licked his lips almost indistinguishably at the queen, his face smug. He gave a cocky little bow before gesturing to the men behind him, acting thoroughly pleased with himself.

Cersei's expression did not change; her mouth was a thin line and she glanced at Euron as disdainfully as she'd always done. She ignored Greyjoy and addressed the commanders of her hired army instead. "Which of you may I suppose is the captain of the Golden Company?" Her hands were folded in her lap, her voice void of emotion.

One of the men stepped forward and bowed slightly. He was passingly handsome, with multiple scars on his face and a short, kempt beard on his chin. "Your grace. I am Harry Strickland, commander of the Golden Company." He nodded to the men on his left and right. "This is Black Balaq, commander of archery, and Lysono Maar the master of spies." Both nodded their allegiance as they were introduced, clearly men of composure and confidence. They were quite equal to their surroundings, showing not the least intimidation by the throne room, nor the black outfitted woman who looked down upon them. Strickland gestured to the last of the three men standing near him, "And this is Gorys Edoryen, the company paymaster." The man bowed indulgently, pasting a smile across his round, lickspittle face.

Cersei inclined her head slightly at the men each in turn, before addressing Strickland again. "They say you have never broken your contract. Is this true?" She fixed him with an intense gaze, leaving no question of her authority.

Strickland nodded brusquely, "Aye, your grace. Our contract is our word, and our word is our contract." His voice matched his appearance—crisp, strong, and unwavering. "We've never broken it, nor do we intend to. We are bound to your grace for the duration." His face was hard and impassive, and she knew he meant the words that he spoke.

Cersei stood and glanced briefly at Euron who was mentally undressing her. She did not allow her disgust of the man to show on her face, and instead locked eyes with Strickland intently. "Good." Her gaze flicked back to Euron. "Kill this man."

Euron scarcely had time for the shock to register on his self-satisfied face before Strickland's blade was drawn and plunged into his belly. Several more swords had been unsheathed in the event that the commander would need additional support, but Strickland was a fierce warrior who was known for his lightning fast reflexes, and Euron had been caught completely unawares. His eyes bulged as he looked up at Cersei in horror, choking in pain. Then the knife which Strickland had pulled from his belt swiped across the usurper's throat in a swift motion. Euron Greyjoy fell to the cold stone, his life ebbing out of him within a matter of moments.

Cersei nodded brusquely at Strickland after the deed was done. "I am transferring command of your army to my ally in the North, Jon Snow. You will report to him for further instructions at Winterfell." A flash of curiosity at her words passed across the commander's eyes, but he recovered quickly and bowed his acknowledgement. "Of course, your grace."

Cersei continued, "Take the evening to rest your men, you shall have every resource of the crown at your disposal. You will march at first light." Strickland again nodded his acquiescence.

The queen lifted her skirts and strode from the throne room.

 _-Two Days Ago-_

"How much longer will you need him for your 'experiments'?" Cersei questioned Qyburn brusquely, unable to conceal her mild annoyance at the inconvenience of having her personal guard temporarily removed.

Qyburn steepled his hands and tilted his head in her direction. "Your grace, my deepest apologies, it should not take much longer. My study of the—reanimated dead creature that was left here after the parley certainly filled many holes in my work. Ser Gregor's—improvement—should not have him removed from your service for longer than perhaps three hours." He smiled apologetically.

Cersei's lip raised in disdain, the goblet of wine hovering just inches from her lips. "And it has been above two hours already," she said through clenched teeth, "I expect this means he will be returning shortly?" She fixed the small, disgraced former maester in her cold gaze, feeling uncharacteristically frustrated with him. He'd finally convinced her to allow Gregor to undergo further "improvements" as he'd termed it, and she'd given her consent hesitantly. She was now near to regretting her decision.

"Yes, your grace," the little man assured her. "I can acquaint you with what has already transpired in regards to his person, if it please you?"

The queen sipped her wine distractedly, the displeasure showing clearly on her face, but her curiosity had been piqued. "Yes, it would please me." She strode to the window and looked out disinterestedly over the sea of thatched rooftops and spires of King's Landing, waiting for Qyburn's explanation.

The queen's Hand smiled and began. "Upon your consent, I brought Ser Gregor to my laboratory and helped him settle upon my work table. Unfortunately, it was necessary that he be restrained lest he react—unsatisfactorily—to my work." Cersei turned to glare at him and Qyburn attempted to appease her by quickly adding, "He did not protest, your grace. I gave him something to hold to distract him while I prepared my experiment." The grey man paused, and Cersei finally looked at him again, further annoyed at how he was dragging out the telling. Qyburn was undeterred and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Would your grace care to know what it was?"

Cersei clenched the goblet until her knuckles turned white. When had the man become so aggravating? She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to be calm, and spoke between gritted front teeth. "I don't particularly care to know, Qyburn, but I imagine you'll be telling me all the same." She raised an eyebrow and sipped again, turning back to the view from the window that neither pleased nor interested her.

Qyburn smiled again, "Yes, your grace. It was a small, wooden knight. He was rather surprised at the significance of it, so I reminded him. 'It is from your brother,' says I."

Cersei's head whipped around and her eyes narrowed at Qyburn. The man was unmoved, and continued as if he'd said nothing out of the ordinary. "'Sandor says you can have your toy back.' Gregor doesn't much care to hear about his brother, as I'm sure your grace knows. He was angry, but I just walked calmly back up the stairs with my candle as he struggled against the restraints."

Cersei's face had twisted into a mixture of confusion and alarm, the goblet of wine temporarily forgotten and tilting precariously from her hand. Still, the old man continued. "I smiled at him to reassure him, before I dropped my candle upon the strip of wildfire which circled the room. I'd worked for a bit on that experiment, you know, I wanted it to go over quite well." A cruel smile twisted Qyburn's face as he recalled the scene, "Gregor does not like fire any more than his brother did, it would seem. I can't say that I actually saw whether he was improved by my experiment or not. You see, I left the room before he'd stopped screaming and writhing as the wildfire consumed him."

Cersei made a choking sound, but was glued to her spot, unable to process what in the seven hells was going on. Qyburn continued upon seeing her shocked face, "Oh, not to worry, not to worry. The fire was contained in my laboratory, I took great precautions on that account." The former maester clasped his hands in front of him, reveling in the horror of Cersei's countenance.

She was momentarily at a loss for words, her face pale, her eyes flashing in confusion and rage. "What on earth do you mean?! What have you done?" She fairly shrieked, flinging the goblet against a column and spraying the red liquid across the floor of her solar. Cersei clenched her fists, her jaw working as she processed what had just occurred. Qyburn was unmoved, standing with his hands clasped, his face as expressionless as if he'd informed her it was mealtime.

"Guards!" She finally shouted, moving toward the door.

Qyburn chuckled softly, "Oh no, no, you didn't think I would have left any out there for you, did you? Dear, no." He shook his head in amusement at Cersei's ever-heightening sense of alarm. She almost ran to the door, wrenching it open to see two bloodied corpses lying in the hall. A man with black hair and piercing blue eyes—vaguely familiar to her—grinned at Cersei before pulling the door shut once more, trapping her inside.

The queen's alarm had turned to panic, but she attempted to use her powers of intimidation. "How dare you?!" she shrieked, stalking toward the small man and smacking him hard across the face. Qyburn was laughing as he stood back up, boldly facing her as if nothing had occurred. She paled and in the next moment found herself sprawled on the ground with a bloodied lip when he'd backhanded her. She gasped and crawled away quickly, looking up and behind her at the man she'd trusted explicitly with an expression of unsuppressed horror.

Qyburn continued, "Really, Cersei, you're the queen of scheming and conniving, you didn't see this coming? You faked pregnancy to try to convince your brother to stay with you, tricked the men and women at the parley into believing you'd fight in the war against the dead, and yet you did not see this coming?" He laughed coarsely as Cersei drew herself back to her feet, stumbling in her utter shock and disbelief. "Oh, tut tut—I've drawn blood." He withdrew a handkerchief and reached out to dab at Cersei's lip, but she shoved his hand away forcefully, cowering in rage.

"Don't touch me!" she snarled, her hand moving up to the cheek which had been struck.

Qyburn knitted his brows showing concern. "Well, I'll be sure to be more careful from here on, I do need your face."

He drew a long, thin blade from somewhere in his sleeves and Cersei blanched. "What—what do you think you're doing? I command you to leave me!" Cersei hastily withdrew a small knife from between her breasts from a pocket that she'd had sewn there for the very purpose. It had made her feel powerful and formidable; prepared for all scenarios. Qyburn saw it and broke out into hysterical laughter. The queen was livid.

When the laugh subsided, he wiped his eyes dramatically and said, "Well. I'd like you to guess who I am. I'll give you—," Qyburn paused and looked away thoughtfully, "I'll give you three attempts," he finished.

"What?" Cersei was beside herself with equal parts terror and confusion. "What do you mean? What is going on?" She demanded, glancing about her for some alternate method of escape.

"Don't worry, I'll give you clues. First clue. Your hideous, vile little brat son killed my father." Qyburn fiddled with the blade idly, mildly amused as he waited for Cersei's guess.

"I don't know who your father was, you fool! I don't _care_ who he was," she hissed.

Qyburn tutted and with a swift flick of his wrist, sent the knife in Cersei's hand flying. "Wrong answer. That wasn't even really a guess. You only have two more, do better." He leaned backwards against the table, a lazy smile on his face.

Cersei had screamed at the attack and was now holding her bleeding fingers in her other hand, several bearing a gash which went to the bone. She was so full of rage she looked as if she'd explode with it, yet this seemed to only further amuse Qyburn. He waited a moment before looking as if he'd remembered something. "Oh, right, another clue. So sorry, my mind is all over the place at the moment. Well, let's see. Oh yes, your cunt father ordered my mother and brother killed while they attended a wedding. I actually avenged them already, singlehandedly wiping out the entire line of the Freys recently." He knitted his brows. "Aw shite, now I've said too much. I've given it away for certain." He almost pouted.

Cersei looked as if she'd seen a ghost and was grasping for some semblance of understanding. She began looking about her wildly and mumbling to herself. "This is madness, I'm certainly dreaming." Her breaths were coming fast in her panic.

Qyburn laughed again. "No, Gods, no you're not dreaming, thank goodness. This is as real as life gets; cruel, awful, surprising. Yet unlike those innocents whom you've inflicted suffering upon, you actually deserve this. You've done everything to deserve this moment." He approached her slowly, menacingly. "Really, you're not going to humor me by guessing? I suppose humor was never your strong point." He sighed and paused, tossing his sword absently to his right hand. "Fine, I suppose the charade is over." He stretched his left arm across his face toward his neck on the opposite side, reaching his withered fingers under his robes momentarily, before pulling at something. Cersei shrieked in horror as Qyburn's face crumpled away, and was replaced by a cold, unaffected glare from—a girl!

Not just any girl, she realized as she looked into those dark, expressionless eyes. That little wolf brat, the one who'd run from her after she'd captured her father! The one who'd caused her so much frustration at her disappearance. Arya Stark. But who in seven hells was she now? Had she truly killed the Mountain? And the Freys? Certainly she'd killed Qyburn. Cersei swallowed the fear she felt at seeing her Hand's crumpled visage discarded on the floor. The guards were no doubt also dead, but could have been killed by the man she'd seen at the door, the vaguely familiar young man. The queen glanced quickly at her bleeding hand and forced herself to accept the truth. She could not hope to fool herself that the girl was lying. Arya Stark was undoubtedly a killer.

After several long moments of taking in what she now beheld, all that Cersei said was, "You."

Arya smiled and took a step closer. "Yes. Me. How things might have been different for both of us had you not been such a conniving cunt," Arya said, almost wistfully. Her hair was drawn back in the style of her father, as Cersei happened to notice, and when next she removed Qyburn's robe, the queen saw that she wore the clothing common of the Northmen.

Arya seemed pleased that Cersei was noticing her garb. She looked down at herself and smiled. "Do you like it? I thought it only fitting that you should be executed in true Northern style, seeing as how you are the reason that half of my family and all of our old household are dead." Cersei blanched a little, still cradling her hand as the blood stained the front of her black gown just a little blacker. "But first, I'm going to acquaint you with some news."

Cersei's chin shot up in defiance and she looked vicious as she spat out, "If you're going to kill me then get on with it. Are you a coward?" She looked almost rabid with her teeth bared in an ugly sneer.

Arya laughed without mirth, completely unaffected by the queen's taunts and continued. "First, do you know your brother has gone to our side? Oh I know that you knew your _little_ brother joined with the North long ago, but I mean your lover, Jaime. The one that Bran saw you fucking when you had him shoved out the window so long ago." Arya cocked her head and smiled. "Don't look so surprised. Bran is the three-eyed-raven now. He knows and sees everything that happens and has happened in the Seven Kingdoms. In the world, really. He even knew of your betrayal before your dear brother came to tell us of it. Still," she stroked her blade casually, "We were very pleased at his intentions. It was the thought that counted, after all. You'll be cheered to know that he was well when I left him, and rather interested in the lady Brienne, from all I could tell. They have such chemistry, you know. He seemed somewhat surprised that I was an assassin, but did not object at all to my assignment here. To kill you." Arya's face twisted in a little grin.

Cersei worked her jaw violently as she desperately tried to not reveal any of her true emotions to this girl. "I exiled him. I commanded him to leave! Do you think I care where he went?" She sneered.

Arya chuckled again, "No you didn't. The game of faces that I learned in Braavos—the one that your Qyburn failed at recently—was excellent at teaching me how to spot a liar." She cocked her head a bit in remembrance. "Did you know, after I left King's Landing so long ago, amongst other things, I actually was cupbearer to your father at Harrenhal? You're much like him. You both think you're so clever, so on top of everything, such schemers." Arya said the words with exaggerated drama, further highlighting how ridiculously drunk with power the Lannisters had appeared to the outside world. "And yet, your own family turned against you, while your enemies slipped from your grasp." She tutted at her and shook her head. "Now what else did I need to tell you." She looked up and to the side, thoughtfully.

Cersei had reached the heavy, golden candelabra that she'd been slowly edging toward and suddenly threw herself with a mad scream against Arya, swinging wildly. The girl hardly reacted to the attack. She stepped expertly to the side, the blow glancing off of her needle-like sword, before slashing a dagger that she'd seemingly pulled out of nowhere through Cersei's shoulder. The queen fell to the ground, screaming and clutching the wound that now gushed blood.

"Well shit, that's bleeding too fast. I need you here a little longer so I can tell you the rest. Staunch the flow." Cersei looked wildly up at Arya as if she were a madwoman, yet instinctually had already grasped the wound, attempting to stop the heavy flow of blood which seeped over her fingers. The rage was consuming her and she lashed out at the young woman who was besting her in every way.

"Your little bitch sister was my son's hostage! Do you think he treated her well while she was here?" she hissed, trying to force a superior grin onto her countenance. "They say your mother wailed like a whore when the Freys raped her repeatedly before they slit her throat." She scooted further from Arya even as she said it, her mind frantically trying to settle on a way out of her dire situation.

Arya raised her eyebrows, "Another lie. Well, the second, not the first." She crouched down to Cersei's level, light on her toes and looked at her patronizingly. "Your little shit son was nothing compared to what Ramsay did to my sister. Do you know how Ramsay died?" Arya grinned and continued when Cersei didn't respond. "I don't know if it was better or worse than how Joffrey did." She shrugged, "He was eaten alive by his own hounds—at Sansa's command. I believe if my sister were here she'd thank you for the lessons you and yours taught her." Arya leaned closer until she was a few inches from the pale, angry face of her adversary, "You unleashed the wolf in my sister." Her eyes twinkled. "Oh!" Arya looked excited for a moment. "You might be interested to know that she actually married your old dog—Sandor Clegane. They're quite in love, probably bonded over a mutual disgust for your family. It's really the sweetest thing." Arya sighed romantically and stood, looking down with satisfaction at the queen.

She began to pace thoughtfully before Cersei, her hands clasped behind her back with the sword still between them. "I think, in your last moments, you may wish to remember that everything that has happened to you has happened because of you." The assassin turned back to face the golden-haired Lannister, the loathing now apparent in her features for the first time. "If you hadn't raised such a cunt for a son, spoiling him and giving him license to terrorize others, another great house wouldn't have felt the need to murder him. If your family with shit for honor hadn't ordered the rape and murder of an innocent woman and her babes, you wouldn't have made enemies of all of Dorne, thereby costing you your daughter. If you hadn't been such a vengeful, idiot cunt to blow up half of the city because of your own foolish decision to arm the faith, you wouldn't have lost your second son. If you hadn't been such a conniving, selfish, wench of a woman who broke her own oath only moments after making it, your own brother—lover—wouldn't have left you." Arya clenched her teeth, "You're a piece of shit and you've been on my kill list since I was a little girl, since you had my friend murdered and killed my sister's wolf because you're a fucking idiot. You've always thought you were so clever, and yet here my family has survived your treachery, we have taken back what you took from us, and you're on the ground, bleeding. You've lost, Cersei. You've lost your own stupid, petty game that you started. You've brought all of your sorrow, all of your suffering upon yourself because you're a selfish fool who thinks she can win the game by cheating all of the players."

"You won't win when you kill me!" Cersei spat furiously, enraged at this little girl's attempt to school her at life. "I have Euron with all of the Golden Company even now approaching the city. When they learn of what you've done here, they'll rip you and your whore sister and your fucking pretender, bastard brother to pieces! They'll take back the kingdoms. You'll never win!" Cersei allowed a vengeful grin to creep up one side of her face as her hand still gripped her bleeding shoulder. "You'll die, just like your father, and mother, and brothers." Her lips pulled back from her clenched front teeth and she looked almost a madwoman, insane with her hatred and rage.

Arya tackled Cersei in one swift movement, slamming her head upon the stone floor as she wrapped her strong fingers around her adversary's long, delicate throat. She straddled the startled, gasping woman, pinning her down beneath her as her hands began to squeeze. "My face is going to be the last thing you see," Arya rasped menacingly, inches from Cersei's wide, panicked eyes. "My brother Jon is not my brother. He is Aegon Targaryen, the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."

Cersei's eyes grew wider as she choked and flailed, clawing at the girl's arms, leaving streaks of blood on them. But Arya would not allow it to end just yet, giving the queen just enough access to air to keep her conscious. "And your armies are mine, because I will become you. I'll keep your lovely face safe, the only lovely thing about you." She squeezed tighter then and Cersei opened and closed her mouth without sound, her eyes bulging and darting about in terror. "When the last breath leaves your body, I will remove your face and use it to command your own armies, to command the city." Arya grinned and sat up straighter atop Cersei's chest as the woman's struggles began to subside, growing weaker by the second. "And when I'm done with you, I'll leave your body for the crows, to be mourned by none."

The Lannister queen's pale hands grasped at her neck feebly where Arya's hands constricted. Her brows contracted in confusion and struggle, her mouth opened and closed as she gasped for the breath that her executioner would no longer allow her to take. Arya lowered her face to the queen's ear and whispered, "The North remembers."

Cersei's body went slack, her arms slumping beside her. Her beautiful green eyes saw no more.

 **I hope this ending for Cersei works for you guys! There's a lot of debate about the Valonqar prophecy that Maggy the Frog gives to Cersei (the one where she tells her that her three children will die, etc.). Some say that High Valyrian is not gender specific, so "little brother" (translation of "valonqar") could mean little sister. It also doesn't specify in the prophecy whose little brother or little sister it would be who would wrap their hands around her throat and squeeze the life from her. So anyway, since Arya is the one to kill her, I figured I'd tie in that prophecy a bit.**

 **There's still a chapter or two left, so keep reading and leaving me your feedback, I love all of it!**


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

 _-Some months later-_

Sandor watched her nimble fingers moving along the fabric expertly, her mind clearly in another place. The soft cotton cloth was bunched up in her lap as the evening sun drifted idyllically through the open window in her solar, casting a fiery halo about her head. It had been a record short winter, lasting less than a full year and astounding all of the maesters at the Citadel. Many speculated that it was due to the death of the Night King who had brought the cold with him, though only time could say for certain. For now, the early breaths of spring were drifting across the North, melting the snows and dragging each day longer than the one before.

Sansa looked up from her work, her gaze drawn to the open window where a breeze drifted through and caught up the wisps of hair that surrounded her face. She closed her eyes momentarily, her hand moving to her swollen abdomen as it often had in the months that followed the great battle for the living. A delicate, contented smile lifted the corners of her lips, _those perfect lips,_ he thought, as he watched his wife from his position on the lounge.

She felt his gaze and turned quickly to meet his eyes, blushing for him as she used to do long ago. She laughed at Sandor's admiring chuckle, "Don't tease me, I know I'm distracted easily lately." She sighed and glanced back out the window before looking back down at the bundle in her lap. "Sewing has become so tiresome, and I used to love it." She stuck her needle into the tiny, white outfit she'd been laboring over and tossed it onto an empty cushion as she stood awkwardly. It was a laborious effort now, Sandor saw, as her midsection had grown larger than he'd thought possible for such a delicate person. She easily rested a hand atop it as she walked toward where he sat on the lounge, a book forgotten in his lap.

When she drew close he reached out a hand for hers, and she took it, lowering herself awkwardly beside him. "What are you reading, love?" She kissed his shoulder as she asked and reached down for the volume in his lap.

"Not really reading, the words are too big. It's a pain in the ass," he grumbled, leaning back and relaxing against the cushion. Sansa laughed as she opened it, confirming for herself that the words really were too big for him yet. When he cast her a scathing look, she clarified.

"No I'm not laughing at you, Sandor. I mean, I'm just laughing at your comment. You'll get it before you know it, I'm actually quite impressed at how quickly you've learned already." Sandor folded his arms and scoffed, not quite ready to be pleased about anything related to reading just yet. The maester and his wife had insisted that he learn, that it would be expected of him in his new position. He'd scowled and grumbled, but did his duty, though he grew frustrated easily in the process. Sansa mostly was his tutor, though he'd been learning from the maester as well.

Sansa smiled and stroked the hair back from his face as she leaned against him. "You'll be pleased when you can read to our child. His favorite will be the stories of knights and fair maidens." She grinned wickedly and Sandor laughed, remembering how he used to taunt her for her love of fairy tales—the stories that were so unlike real life which had taken her years of suffering to learn.

He snatched the book from Sansa's hands and pretended to read a page, his finger underlining the words as he went. "No, I'll read him, 'How to not be a pansy little nance. Chapter 1, reading is for pansy little nances. The end.'" He clapped the book shut with one hand and chuckled at Sansa's outburst of laughter.

"You fool," she pushed him playfully. "Our little one will be a lord or lady one day. He'll have to be educated you know." She stuck her nose up a bit, still grinning at her husband.

"Aye," he pulled her into a kiss. "So you teach him that crap and I'll show 'im how to swing a sword. Why in blazes do I need to learn to do this?" He lifted the book as he said it.

Sansa giggled again. "Because you're a lord now." She rolled her eyes, "You know it, you're just being difficult. How about this. I'll do all the work in making this little love, I'll carry him and suffer through the pain of childbirth. In exchange for me doing all of that, you can just learn to read. Fair?" Her eyes twinkled.

Sandor chuckled gruffly and pulled her into him. "Fair? I'll tell you what's not fair is you using those eyes against me. At some point you realized that I'd do anything for you, and I've been a nance ever since." He kissed the top of her head and his hand found the curve of her belly. "When's this one going to come and wail the nights away and take you from my bed?" His gruffness could hardly disguise the pride that was in his voice every time he spoke of their child.

Sansa sighed deeply and stroked her huge stomach. "Maester Wolkan says he can come any day now." She glanced down and shifted uncomfortably. "And gods know I'm ready for this to be over."

Sandor chuckled and stood, pulling her to her feet with him. "Come, let's go get you some supper."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night seemed the longest of his life. He paced the floor, squeezed his wife's hands, and paced the floor again. Seeing her in pain was almost unbearable, knowing he had no way to make it better. He stroked her hair, held her hands, and massaged her back when she asked. In the years to come, Sansa drew great comfort in remembering how he'd been that night, how the anxious look in his eyes and the desperation he had felt to help her had touched her heart with how intensely he cared for her.

Sandor was beginning to feel that he could not bear to hear his wife's screams of pain for another moment. The sweat pasted her hair to her face and her hands squeezed his with a strength that he didn't know she had. The maester and the midwives fussed about at the end of the bed, yet he only had eyes for her. He knew some women never made it through childbirth, knew that their intense pain would not end with the joy of holding their child, but with their last breath. He swallowed past the fear in his chest and stroked her damp brow, feeling utterly helpless.

Just when he felt that he could take no more of the torture of hearing her screams, a new cry ripped his heart in two. It was tiny and yet so robust, and the change that came over his wife's countenance at hearing it nearly made him melt with relief. He hardly heard the maester declaring it to be a boy, hardly knew what was happening until an old woman was unceremoniously dumping a bundle into his arms. "You have a son, milord."

Sandor looked down at the child, fearing he would break something so incredibly tiny and helpless. He awkwardly cradled the babe as it squeaked and squirmed in his arms before falling silent, staring back up at him. Sansa choked out a sob of joy, reaching for her child and her husband simultaneously, drawing them both to her. He tore his eyes from the babe to settle on his wife, a huge smile lighting up his face as he placed his son in his mother's arms.

Sandor could never have described the joy he felt in that moment. To see the two pieces of his heart lying before him—safe and happy—was more than he could ever have hoped for himself. All those years ago he'd been wrong. Wrong when he thought life was nothing but pain—that the sweetest thing in life was killing. What a fool he'd been to think so, to think that the feeling he had on the battlefield could ever compare to what was in his heart now, overwhelming him with its intensity. His lovely wife, the woman he'd once never dreamed could be his, looked up at him now with a radiance that only new mothers can possess.

"Oh, Sandor, he's perfect!" Her voice broke in her joy, the pain of moments ago forgotten completely. She stroked the babe's face gently, admiring every wrinkle and curve, before placing a kiss on his forehead—the first of many to come.

"Aye," Sandor agreed huskily, trying to disguise the emotion from his voice. He reached down to stroke his son's face with his thumb, dwarfing the infant with his huge hands. "Of course he is, he came from you."

Sansa looked up at her husband and smiled, "He came from you as well. Look, he looks just like you."

Sandor looked and saw that it was true. He chuckled softly, still bewitched by the moment. "But he has your eyes." He grinned at his wife then and kissed her, loving her more in that instant than he ever had before. His Sansa, his little bird who had given him everything, who he'd died for, who he lived for. The first person who'd ever truly loved him, and the woman who'd changed his whole world.

"And have you settled on the name then?" He asked, looking down at his likeness in her arms once more.

Sansa's blue eyes looked up to meet his, and she smiled as she stroked the burned side of his face tenderly, all the love in her heart shining forth from her eyes. "His name is Sandor."

 **You guys have been the best readers a girl could ask for! I will probably be writing another SanSan in the near future so follow me as an author if you haven't already and if you want more! Don't forget to read the Epilogue to get the wrap up of the to-dos in the realm. Thank you, thank you for your support of my story, favorites, follows and reviews!**

 ***Edit new fic is up called Gentle the Rage, another SanSan. Check it out!**


	30. Chapter 30

Epilogue

In the months following the great battle, much had changed. The entire governing structure of Westeros had been called into question and it had taken much time and deliberation to determine the best options going forward. Jon had no desire to rule which was precisely what drew everyone to him as their ruler. It was eventually decided that Jon would rule in name, but Tyrion as his Hand would take the greater role in governance of the Seven Kingdoms from the capital. Bran would have a place on the small council, his insight and wisdom being of incredible value to the realm. Varys, Grey Worm, and Missandei would be members of the council as well, and the Unsullied would become the new city watch of King's Landing.

For several months the Golden Company assisted in keeping the peace of Westeros and enforcing the new rulers. They eventually returned to Essos, escorted by Theon and Yara, the latter who had been freed from the Black Cells following Cersei's demise. Together they would rule the Iron Islands, their freedom having been granted per Dany's agreement with them, on the same conditions which had been laid at the time.

The Dothraki were returned to Essos on the same ships which brought them from there, along with any of Dany's armies who did not wish to remain in Westeros.

The Night's Watch was disbanded, which was one of the greatest shocks to the realm, but with the threat of the wildlings and the Walkers removed, there was no longer need for them. The remaining wildlings settled peacefully in the North.

Gendry was naturalized by royal decree, granting him rights to Storm's End as the lord of the keep with the Baratheon surname. Arya spent much of her time visiting that castle in the years to come, and though she never became the lady of Storm's End in dress or demeanor, after a great deal of persuasion she did marry the lord of the castle and bore him an heir, on the condition that he never call her a lady.

The seat of Highgarden passed to the next heir in the Tyrell line, a younger brother of Mace Tyrell who swore fealty to the new king and the realm.

The seat of house Frey, the Twin Towers of the Crossing was given to none other than Ser Davos. Jon needed a man who could be trusted with the strategical castle, trusted to serve the interests of the people and not his own.

Lady Brienne resisted the advances of Tormund for some time, once the mourning period for her old love had ended. She caved eventually, being still a woman and craving that which every woman desires. She served Lady Sansa faithfully, however, and it took her mistress nearly forcing her to accept Tormund for Brienne to give up her post as Lady Sansa's guard. Sansa assured her that she was quite well-protected already, and Brienne eventually did make babies with Tormund, fulfilling his heart's desire.

Lord Tyrion inherited Casterly Rock with all its lands and incomes, despite living in the capital as the Hand, his children would eventually rule as the new lords of the castle.

Samwell Tarly inherited Horn Hill and married Gilly, eventually naturalizing little Sam and making him his heir.

The Children of the Forest returned to the Isle of Faces where a handful of others had survived the attack by the Night King. They would no longer be isolated from men, but lived in harmony with them.

Edmure Tully ruled in Riverrun, and Robin Arryn in the Vale. Dorne chose a new ruler by their own democratic process, but was still considered under the rule of King's Landing, swearing fealty to the new king.

Daenerys and her Dragons were immortalized in the capital with a great statue raised in their honor in the dragonpit, which became a memorial of the sacrifice she made for the people during the war of the living.

Jon eventually wed a woman from house Dayne, and was given sons and daughters who would rule after him. The surname Targaryen was the only vestige of the great ruling family that remained in Westeros. Since Jon (who was only ever called Aegon in technicalities) began his rule, the Seven Kingdoms knew many hundreds of years of peace and prosperity, and the era was known thereafter as the Age of Spring.


End file.
